The Anniversary
by Turrislucidus
Summary: On the occasion of the second anniversary of Gene Wilder's passing, Willy Wonka discovers "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory". A meta look at how that might unfold.
1. Chapter 1

Willy didn't know—and Charlie was not going to tell him—that ever since Charlie had learned what science knew about their orbits, Charlie, whenever he went to find him, thought of Willy Wonka—as positively charged a person as he was—as an electron. Electrons, science tells us, have patterns to their orbits, and while one can never know precisely where in that orbit an electron might be at any given moment, one _can_ know approximately where it might be, so Charlie, when he couldn't find Willy in any of Willy's usual haunts—after checking the customary orbit more than once—became concerned, and began a search.

The search ended in the Television Chocolate Room, with Charlie finding a despondent Willy melting into the chair before the television set, his chin on his chest, his wrists limp, his forearms placed as if they were the only things keeping him afloat. Before him, Willy was staring at bug-races, which is to say, the television showed only static. His hat was no where to be seen, his walking-stick lay on the floor, but most alarming of all, his hair was the merest hint disheveled: Charlie knew things were serious.

"What's wrong, Mr. Wonka?" Charlie ventured, sliding on cat-feet into the room.

"Wrong? Everything's wrong! Can't you see that?"

Willy hadn't moved his head at all, but his right hand waved weakly towards the screen, the only sign, other than his answer, that he was alive.

"Is it the static?" Charlie hated asking questions like this, but Willy seemed unlikely to enlighten him without prodding.

"No, it's not the static," snapped Willy, finding the energy to hunch forwards in the chair. "You know there's never anything good on television, and the one day there _will_ be anything good on television is the day I have a hundred experiments, that won't wait, and need seeing to _immediately_ , and that would be today of all days!"

"What will be on?" Charlie had places to go and things to do, but this was important.

"You've forgotten? Will you forget me so quickly? Today is the second anniversary of Gene Wilder's passing, and today is the Gene Wilder movie marathon. They are going to show all of his most famous films. You know I love "Young Frankenstein".

"Steen," said Charlie, with a laugh.

"Steen, Igor, Egor, I'll miss it! It's awful!"

Speaking of death, Willy was coming to life. He was sitting up in the chair, his animated self. Charlie smiled again. The solution was easy.

"I'll see that they're recorded, Willy. See to your experiments, and later, you can watch Mr. Wilder to your heart's content, as far into the night as you'd like."

* * *

Willy having given him the okay, Charlie delegated the recording task to the Oompa-Loompas. There'd been a strange exchange of glances Charlie haven't fathomed at the time, but they'd nodded their heads, and Charlie had gone on his merry way.

The experiments had gone well, and at the end of the day a chuffed Willy Wonka had invited the Bucket family to join him in the Television Chocolate Room for the screening. As rare as the invitation was, they all attended, joining the invited Oompa-Loompas. Everyone settled, the lights dimmed, and the music swelled: 'As Time Goes By', the Warner Bros. Trademark; the logo faded, and shiny, brown melting chocolate took its place. Eshle dived for the remote control. Willy, raising his arm high, snatched it away.

"What's this? This is not the silhouette of a lonely castle on a craggy hill!"

'This' was something the Oompa-Loompas had stumbled across years ago, but had never let Willy see. It had been easy. Willy never watched television. A title filled the screen: "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory".

Willy jumped to his feet, so compactly he was standing on the chair. "What IS this?"

Letters appeared over the chocolate: Starring Gene Wilder. The remote fell from Willy's hand. Eshle grabbed it, hitting the pause button. It was no use turning it off. The cat was out of the bag; the beans were spilled; the jig was up … the clichés were running out like the cacoa beans from the coarsely woven sack now frozen on the screen.

"It's the movie Gene Wilder made about you."

"About me?" The high squeak of Willy's voice couldn't have been more incredulous. " _He_ … wanted … to be … _me_?"

No one spoke. This was new to the Buckets as well. The Oompa-Loompa responsible for the recording sidled out of the room. Willy's mind wandered to the parts it wandered to when it wandered, and not being able to follow, the others waited. In not too long, Willy returned. Taking his bearings, he jumped from the cushion to the floor, and after brushing off the cushion, retook his seat.

"How'd he do?"

"See for yourself."

"Give me the remote."

Eshle handed it over, and Willy hit play. The credits rolled, and candy was made. "So far, so good," murmured Willy. The Buckets' eyes were glued to the screen.

"Someone in this is a Dodo," said Grandpa George. "It says so right there."

"Shush," admonished Mr. Bucket. "It's about to start."

* * *

 _Greetings! This is not complete, but I wanted to get something posted on the day. Stay tuned for more tomorrow, or soon thereafter. I do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._


	2. Chapter 2

A flood of school children filled the screen, heading for Bill's Candy Shop.

"I love thundering herds," sang out Georgina.

"I don't," muttered Willy.

In the shop, Bill was expecting them, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Children crowded around the counter and Bill handed them 'the usual'. Not all 'the usual' carried the Wonka brand, and Willy frowned. A new candy by him, a "Scrumdiddlyumptious Bar" was touted, and the frown disappeared. A child struggling with the name sounded like he called it 'unctuous' at the end, and the frown was back. Then Bill declared the boy a 'Wonkerer', and Willy hit pause.

"A Wonkerer? What the heck is a Wonkerer? My name is spelled with an 'a'. If anything, he would be a Wonka-erer. Who wrote this?"

"The credits say Roald Dahl wrote it," replied Mrs. Bucket.

The name meant nothing to Willy, and shaking his head, he hit play. Bill burst into song, and candy was strewn everywhere. It was a flattering song, about him, but Willy's lips were pursed in a hard, thin line: no excuses, candy thrown on the floor was candy abuse.

George, loving the chorus, was grinning like a banshee. Josephine's toothy smile supported him. "He's calling you Candyman, Candyman! I'm not the only one!"

Glowering, Willy's eyes made subtle motions of disgust George was lucky not to see, but he otherwise let the remark slide, as Mr. Bucket, to silence him, had elbowed George in the ribs hard enough to make him sway. While the song droned on, Willy glanced at the Oompa-Loompas. Singing was their forté, and they might not appreciate this encroachment on their territory. Torsos swaying to the rhythm, they, by all appearances, were enjoying it. Bill was on a ladder now, pushing it along the wall. "That looks like fun," said Willy, unbending a little.

The song ended, and a pouty-faced blond boy, his face hanging in the window, turned away. Willy felt a chill run down his spine that Charlie, seated next to him, shared. "Who d'ya think the dreary sad-sack not taking part is?"

"Ya got me," said Charlie, hoping against hope it wasn't meant to be him. As far as movie narratives went, it wasn't looking good. Approaching a newsstand, the dreary sad-sack, less dreary now, held out a sack that a man named Jopeck filled with newspapers. While doing so, he called the lad 'Charlie'. Willy pushed pause again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," shrugged Charlie. "It's a common name. It doesn't have to be me. I have dark hair, and I was far thinner than that boy is."

Willy pushed play, and the movie resumed. The next line was the nail in the coffin. "Say hello to your Grandpa Joe," called out Mr. Jopeck, as the lad set off.

"It's me," sighed Charlie.

Willy, silently commiserating with his apprentice, let the movie run, and run it did, with Charlie joyfully delivering newspapers _at_ the run, in a way that made it look as if he'd been doing this all his life; running, without a care in the world. Willy could feel the thoughts of the Buckets around him, each of them remembering the soupy cabbage-water that had barely kept them alive. It was a food source that didn't allow for running anywhere, much less all over town, by any of them. It was an alternate universe they were watching; one that made light of their plight, and not knowing how to feel about that, and unable to turn away, they kept watching.

* * *

Movie Charlie, his paper round sorted, paused by the gates of the Wonka factory. Seeing those gates, and that wall, so alien to what they knew, all eyes in the room turned to Willy.

" _That's_ supposed to be my Factory?" With raised brow, Willy looked askance. "It looks like a campus. What are all those buildings? Where's the grand entrance? Where's the grand gates? What's with the wall, and why is there a cutout in it? Why, anyone could boost anyone else over that gate in two shakes of a lamb's tail!"

An agreeing murmur went up amongst the Oompa-Loompas. Those gates and that low wall were no security at all! And all that open space … plenty of room for predators of every variety to feel right at home.

Making use of the cutout, movie Charlie maneuvered to watch the name 'Wonka' light up in letters on the tall chimney stack.

"I did love to do that," reflected Charlie, seeing something he could identify with. "Stand by the gates, and smell all those beautiful scents that pour from your Factory. I used to pretend there were calories in those odors, and maybe there were, because afterwards I always felt better."

It was shame that colored Willy's cheeks, deserved or not. "I wish there _were_ calories in those scents…"

A tinker and his cart interrupted the scene in both worlds, the movie Charlie listening with alarm to an admonition about little men, and no one going in, and no one going out, and that, at least, everyone could nod at.

"How does he know about the 'little men'?" asked Eshle, perched on a stool behind Willy.

"Shadows on the windows, I should think," opined Willy, "but look at all that open space. Maybe he just saw one, one fine summer's day. Remember what happened to Hāpai, when he went outside with the Fizzy Lifting Drink?"

Looking sad, the Oompa-Loompas bowed their heads, the Buckets looked confused, and the movie didn't wait. The scene cut to the Bucket house, and every Bucket leaned forwards. Willy sat back.

The bed that dominated the room was purpose made, a four-poster with four individual headboards. There was something odd in that, as if wanting crowding together in the same bed were the sole reason for the circumstance, but odd didn't bother anyone present, and no one made a comment. Josephine was crocheting. That hadn't changed. George and Georgina were sleeping. Grandma Josephine, as Mr. Jopeck had, complained that Charlie was late. Grandpa Joe, in a crotchety mood, complained to his daughter-in-law that the boy worked too hard. She lobbed the ball back into his court, placing the blame for that on them, for failing to get out of bed for twenty years: any of them. As if to underscore her point, movie George let out a mighty snore.

"I don't snore!" said Grandpa George, smashing his right fist into his left palm.

Willy and the Oompa-Loompas exchanged glances. It was an on-screen scene of strife they were witnessing, something they had _never_ seen from the Bucket family, and it was unnerving them. They were not alone. Most offended, the middle Buckets shared their horror, with Mr. Bucket watching with parted lips.

 _"If only his father were alive."_

In a rare display of alacrity, Mr. Bucket was on his feet. "What! I'm dead! Stop the movie! I'm not dead! What's the meaning of this? How did I die? Why?"

Shocked himself, Willy fumbled with the remote. Before he could push pause, they'd learned that the grandparents _never_ left the bed, and Mrs. Bucket started thinking about what 'forever' meant: 'a very long time'. Surely this Mrs. Bucket couldn't be taken seriously. Mrs Bucket wasn't seeing the outlines of any bedpans under those bed clothes … surely 'never' meant 'only when necessary', as it had in her world.

"We're not _that_ decrepit," said Josephine, echoing her thought, with a round of agreement from the other Grands.

With the movie paused, and silence falling, all eyes turned to Mr. Bucket. His natural reticence returning, he put his hands in his pockets. "Heh ... I just didn't expect to be dead."

"I didn't expect to be blond," said Charlie. "Or have so much energy."

"I didn't expect to be arguing with Grandpa Joe," said Mrs. Bucket.

"I didn't expect to hear myself taking part in a blame-game about Charlie's situation," said Grandpa Joe.

"I didn't expect to be watching a movie about me, and you guys, and, I'm guessing, my contest. I can kinda see where this is going. What d'ya wanna do? We can stop."

Mr. Bucket looked at Willy. "Well, I'm dead, so I don't think it's going to get any worse for me. I can't say the same for you, or the Oompa-Loompas, or the rest of us Buckets. What do _you_ want to do?"

"I d'know." But watching the Buckets go at each other was certainly novel, and being so much more what he was used to when it came to _his_ memories of life when he was a boy, it might be worthwhile to continue. "Press on?" He looked first to Eshle and Doris and the other Oompa-Loompa section-heads present. With folded arms, but nodding heads, they were willing. The Buckets were willing. Charlie was willing. Willy pressed play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 film. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for the favs and follows, and thanks to **Squirrela, The Silly Storyteller,** and **mattTheWriter072** for your reviews._


	3. Chapter 3

It got worse, but not before it got better. Charlie made it home, and all in the small but comfortable house were thrilled to see him. Having greeted them all, Charlie took the bowl of 'cabbage water' from Grandpa Joe, declaring it 'not enough'. His sacrilege—generalized comments about scarcity were taboo in both Bucket households—earned him generalized reproofs, until he revealed a loaf of bread he had concealed in his bag. Then, the worse for Charlie, the reproofs turned to distrust.

 _"_ _Charlie, where'd you get that?"_

The tone of the question was unmistakeable. Mrs. Bucket found herself speechless with indignation, her mouth opening and closing meaninglessly. Willy, equally indignant, wasn't speechless.

"Your mater thinks you _steal_ , Charlie?"

 _"_ _Who cares where he got it? Point is, he got it."_

Willy turned his gaze to Grandpa Joe. "And _you_ condone theft?" The tone was silky, and dangerous.

"Don't look at me, Mr. Wonka. I wouldn't blame my daughter-in-law for not keeping the floor warm enough for me to set foot on it, and I don't condone theft: bread or recipes." Grandpa Joe was no dummy when it came to how his former employer thought. "That man up there is not me."

The scene moved on, with movie Charlie explaining about it being his first payday.

Eshle gave Charlie a thumbs-up. "Your first? You just started? You're a natural!"

"Charlie always has had excellent hand/eye co-ordination," sniffed Willy.

Charlie shrugged, happy to hear the one, but not sure how to take the other. A compliment from Willy was always welcome, but Charlie had never had a paper round, or route, as this movie called it, and he had to wonder what was Eshle getting at. Was he trying to lighten the mood, or implying that Charlie had little talent for candy making?

The scene progressed, sweeping Charlie's thoughts away with it, and the room relaxed, as the on-screen versions of themselves became recognizable: Charlie was generous; Mrs. Bucket was proud; Grandpa Joe thought of the good of others. For a moment, Charlie thought Mr. Wonka might pat him on the knee. He didn't, but he did mutter, 'that's the Charlie I know', and then the screen darkened, and it was later, with Charlie telling Grandpa Joe about the tinker.

"Juan-ka's? Did you just call me Juan-ka?"

"Not me, Willy," murmured Charlie, taking his lead from Grandpa Joe.

Mesmerized, all in the room listened as Joe told Charlie the story of the spies and the aftermath, the more so because Joe was getting it right. "Not the first time, this time," sang out Georgina, knowing Charlie had heard this story many times before, a fact not implied here. "We're the workers," crowed Doris, chuffed to hear that her tribe was the mystery of mysteries. Willy grinned with pleasure. At the next scene, he outright laughed, clapping his hands with glee. The teacher's doublespeak was right up his alley, but better than that, the man was an officious jerk.

"Don't you hate teachers like that? The ones who try to make you look bad, so they'll look good? _That_ is assuredly _not_ how you go about mixing things in equal parts."

The wart mixture blew up, with the Oompa-Loompas' laughter drowning out Willy's. This was part-and-parcel of inventing, with these little misfortunes needing to be taken in stride. The Buckets, not understanding as well as the seasoned Factory denizens that failure is a part of every success, looked on.

Willy turned to Eshle. "Do I have anything in the wart removal category going on at the moment? I'm down one Veruca, but what about verrucas in general?" Willy was thinking rhetorically, and seeing Eshle might rely, waved his hand. "Nevermind."

Winkleman announced the contest, and Willy rubbed his hands together, only to become concerned at movie Charlie's hang-dog, sad-sack reaction.

"You're pretty convinced you're not gonna win this, aren't ya? When did you get to be so despondent?"

"There's been only one time I've been despondent like that, Willy, and that was when you said I couldn't bring my family back with me to live in the Factory."

"Erp…" Sinking into himself, Willy turned his eyes forwards. He'd stepped into that one, alright. "Oooo," he said, squaring his shoulders again. This next scene happily let him divert the subject. "That newscaster looks like Walter Cronkite!"

The six other people in the room who knew who Walter Cronkite was, nodded. Everyone returned to the movie. The on-screen Buckets watched as avidly as the off-screen Buckets.

 _"_ _Shush, the man's a genius. He'll sell a million bars."_

Blowing on upturned fingers, gloved as they always were, and then using them to polish an imaginary medal on his chest, Willy was in complete agreement. "I am, aren't I."

It wasn't a question, but before George and Josephine could collectively roll their eyes, on-screen Charlie spoke.

 _"_ _Grandpa, do you think I've got a chance to find one?"_

 _"_ _One? I'm counting on you to find all five."_

Smiles turned into lines or outright frowns, and Grandpa Joe was quick. "Once again, Willy, that's not me. That's someone with a greedy streak talking."

"Perhaps he's trying to be upbeat," suggested Mrs. Bucket, finding these words her father-in-law would never say disconcerting. "It doesn't have to be greed."

"It's a greedy gramps who thinks more than your share is being upbeat," sniped back Willy.

 _"_ _One's enough for me."_

"Thank you, Charlie, for being your fair-minded self."

Charlie sank deeper into his chair. Praise from Willy was great, but what this on-screen Charlie was like was not up to him, and as bizarre as this on-screen Grandpa Joe was, Charlie didn't think he was out of the woods yet.

Early ticket finding vignettes followed, amusing Willy mightily.

"Ha, ha! The White House!" Willy cackled happily. " _'…the spirt of man, holding up under the strain!_ ' Ooo, I have influence!" Willy was silent during a discussion of dreams and their meaning, but almost fell off his chair giggling when the next newscaster likened the tickets to bolts of lightning. "Lucky bolts of lightening! What's lucky about bolts of lightening? Strikingly, striking bolts of lightening can strike you dead! Who is this Roald Dahl? He's funny!" Seeing the Oompa-Loompas exchange glances, Willy sobered up some. There _had_ been some mishaps associated with ticket-finding and ticket-finders; maybe the guy was on to something.

The on-screen narrator revealed a ticket had been found, and Grandpa George couldn't resist: "It'll be Augustus Gloop, and he'll be fat, fat, fat!"

The camera cut to the reporter in Düsselheim, and Willy again erupted in giggles. "He has antlers growing out of his head!" he pointed. Oh, the joys of forced perspective! It was delicious. Willy drew up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, and began rocking in his chair. It was _too_ funny!

"Shush!" snarled Josephine. "We can't hear with you laughing all the time!"

Willy, breathing and laughing at the same time, coughed a couple of times, remained curled up, but otherwise subsided. The antlered reporter jumped in.

It was Augustus Gloop, and the Bucket oldsters watched with interest. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had only seen the other ticket winners from the back, and the grandparents hadn't seen them at all. Charlie, Willy, and Grandpa Joe were, however, intimately acquainted with them, and it was tough for the middle Buckets to know where to look: at the three, for their reactions, or at the screen, to see for themselves. The screen won. It was where Willy was looking.

Listening to the hyperbole, Charlie turned to Willy. "Western Germany?"

"No where near Loompaland," came Willy's terse reply.

The movie had spilled on without them. Augustus was interviewing with his mouth full.

 _"…_ _any other feelings?"_

 _"_ _Sorry for Wonka. It's going to cost him a fortune in fudge."_

"And it did," sighed Willy. "That boy went to the fudge room, and spoiled the whole batch. Not to mention the chocolate in the river that day. But what a well-dressed boy; so neat, and tidy. Where's the chocolate smeared all over his face? That's not the Augustus _I_ met. This boy is positively mannerly."

Asking a question, another reporter shoved a microphone into Mr. Gloop's face. Mr. Gloop bit it off and swallowed it. Willy hit pause.

"Does anyone here believe that? That Mr. Gloop ate a microphone? Anyone? Anyone?"

A tiny voice from the back of the room mewled, "Bueller."

Noting the source, Eshle shot the Bueller mewl-er a look the Bueller mewl-er wished he wasn't on the receiving end of, with Eshle wondering where _that_ particular individual got the time to watch extraneous movies. He'd find out, later. Willy, oblivious, carried on.

"A show of hands will suffice."

One hand of every person in the room went up. Georgina held up two.

Willy nodded, his grin wry. "Neither do I. But that silliness may have been why it was Mrs. Gloop who attended the tour." With a happy laugh at his own conclusion, Willy hit play, and allowed the movie to resume.

* * *

 _My thanks to Squirrela for connecting the fudge dots: Augustus' comment during this scene, and the pipe he went up. I'd probably have got there eventually, but she got there first. As you can tell from the who saw who when in this, this is the 2005 universe where Charlie went on the tour with the others, with my OC Eshle thrown in for good measure._ _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 film._

 _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended. In the same vein, I have nothing to do with_ Ferris Bueller's Day Off, _either._ _Thanks to_ ** _Squirrela, The Silly Storyteller, Sonny April_** _(for both of them),_ _and **VerucaBeyotch**_ _for your reviews._


	4. Chapter 4

Augustus, his mother now answering a reporter's question, methodically resumed feeding his face. In this, a disfigured waiter delivering sausages aided him, while whispering intimately in the roly-poly Gus's ear.

"Look at Scarface," said Willy, with a shiver. "What's up with him? Isn't that cramping that boy's personal space? Ugh. He looks like a thug. D'ya think he'll fork the beast with that fork? Make a glop out of Gloop with the tines? D'ya think, if he did, that the air rushing out of Gloop would make him ricochet around the room like a burst balloon? That's what woulda happened to ol' Violet, if we hadn't gotten her to the Juicing Room right away." Willy, realizing where his ramblings had taken him, ended with darting eyes and an 'er'.

The scene shifted before the alarmed in the room could think of an answer. It was Charlie's birthday on screen, ever so much more cheerful, and the family was presenting him with presents.

"Isn't it amazing how sweet and nice Josephine looks in this," murmured Willy, unable to keep quiet for some reason. "So friendly; just look at that pleasant smile."

"Forget Josephine, look at what dolts Georgina and I are," complained George. "Toothless and brainless—"

Willy, sending a hand to his mouth to cover his giggle at Josephine's sour look sent his way, interrupted. "You're in your 'doltage'." Hearing himself say his own coined word sent Willy on a renewed visit to giggle-land.

George, ignoring the fit of laughter, crossly crossed his arms over his chest. "Have I said even _one word_ in this film, so far?"

"At least you're not dead," offered Mr. Bucket. "There's still a chance."

"You know what they say, George," said Willy, recovering. "Silence is golden, so hush-up and get rich quick."

"I believe that's 'shut-up'," said George, not believing his luck. What a thrill to have the opportunity to say such a thing so directly to the infernal Mr. Wonka, said opportunity being handed to him by the infernal Mr. Wonka himself.

The gaff wasn't lost on Mr. Wonka, who—

"Are we watching this?" asked Mr. Bucket mildly. "Because I'm trying to."

—realized retreat was his best option. That filter over what he said out-loud ought to kick back in if he let it. Making a zipper motion over his lips for Mr. Bucket's benefit, he settled back in his chair and made a show of obediently watching. Mr. Bucket smiled.

Charlie looked back at the screen. The red scarf 'he' was unwrapping was a nice one, ample, and long, knitted by the women, and Willy was right, Josephine was a dear: her smile was one of the kindest Charlie had ever seen anywhere, on anyone. She was saying she had done the tassels. Charlie wasn't thinking about the tassels. He was thinking about how much yarn cost, and about all the changes of clothes he'd had in this film. And about what good quality the clothes were. And how new they looked. He was happy for this family in their largish house—compared to his—a house in such good repair, with everyone looking so well-fed, whatever the film claimed about their diet. It was so different from the Bucket family's true circumstances. The drafts, the thrift store hand-me downs, the layers for warmth that were never taken off; the tattered blankets he covered those layers with at night. He wondered why it bothered him so much that the viewers of this movie were being so misled, and coming up with nothing, he let the thought go. The next gift was a Wonka candy. Two gifts. It was more than Charlie had ever gotten. Try as he might, Charlie couldn't stifle the sigh.

Willy glanced at over at him. He'd forgotten the details about Charlie finding his ticket, but he knew this wasn't it; there was something about finding money. Charlie had tensed, though he was trying not to show it. The tension, as the dialogue progressed, spread through the room, every Bucket with a building sinking feeling in the pit of their stomachs. The bickering between on-screen Grandpa Joe and Mrs. Bucket was back centerstage, with every exchange putting on-screen Charlie on the defensive, until he too, joined in. Finally he turned away from the heedless adversaries, ripping open the candy as much to stop the clash of wills as to end the suspense.

 _"_ _I got it!"_

Willy flinched.

Charlie let out his breath. "I would never have said that," he said. "But I can see why that Charlie did say that, and in his shoes I'd have been tempted." As upset as Charlie was pretending not to be, this time Willy did touch him: lightly, momentarily, with the back of his hand, on Charlie's shoulder.

"It's remarkable how many people don't enjoy their own medicine, when it's served back to them."

Charlie, not trusting himself to speak, nodded. Watching the family on-screen refusing to share in the candy made him feel more isolated than ever. Mrs. Bucket, sitting on Willy's other side, wished she had chosen a location closer to her son.

The movie broke the tension. Hundreds of disheveled Wonka bars appeared on the screen, heaped in untidy piles. Identically dressed women seated at tables were ripping wrappers as quickly as they could, discarding the chocolate.

"Eww," said Willy. "My poor chocolate bars. They're being slaughtered!"

A shrill strong voice pierced their ears.

"Yikes," said Willy, drawing up his knees again, as if protecting himself from rising waters. Bickering was back, but this time it was the child giving it to her father.

 _"_ _I want it NOOOOOWWWW!"_

Willy clamped his hands over his ears, cringing, with others in the room doing the same.

 _"_ _What's the matter with those twerps down there?"_

A natter of concern erupted amongst the Oompa-Loompas. Workers were twerps? They'd dodged a bullet with that one, they had.

 _"_ _Make 'em work nights!"_

Not one bullet: an entire magazine.

 _"_ _Nineteen thousand an hour they're shelling; seven hundred and sixty thousand so far!"_

Hearing Mr. Salt recite the numbers of the fallen, Willy cradled his brow in his hand in despair. Threats and placating emanated from the screen, and then a cry.

 _"_ _I've got it! I've got it, Mr. Salt, here it is!"_

"Oh, thank God," said Grandpa George. "With that daughter of his, I don't know if I'm listening to a girl, or a cat with its tail being amputated without anesthesia."

Mr. Salt echoed George's sentiments, but the screeching wasn't over, with Veruca, the Golden Ticket in her hand, declaring, _"It's mine! I found a Golden Ticket!"_

 _"I don't think that was really fair,"_ said Charlie, robotically. _"She didn't find the ticket herself."_

 _"Don't worry about it, Charlie, that man spoils his daughter…"_ and then Grandpa Joe stopped, because it was so easy to be caught up in this reality, and this reality wasn't their reality, and all of this had ceased being anyone's reality years ago. They'd moved on.

Watching them, Willy had the sense he was seeing inside a time-machine, witnessing memories not his, and he felt left out. That usually didn't bother him, but he liked these people. This was not _Young Frankenstein._ This wasn't, perhaps, a good idea. It sure looked like this movie was opening up old wounds, and Willy was partial to keeping old wounds bound up. He'd already asked them if they wanted to quit. They'd said no. He'd be a sport, and not ask them again. They'd tell him if they wanted to stop. This had Gene Wilder in it, and they hadn't gotten to that part yet. A diversion would be good, and he found one. "Oh, look," he chirped, "there's Scarface again. How did he get there so fast?"

No one knew, and the watching resumed. Willy covered his eyes not to see his candy as trash, but soon thereafter, the Oompa-Loompas leant forwards to catch every word about a computer programmed to find the remaining Golden Tickets. They loved technology. Grandpa Joe summed up the scene.

"That computer has better manners, and better values, than the people in this movie."

Violet Beauregarde found the next ticket. She extolled the virtues of gum, and Willy commented that the rule in this movie was that everyone's hair be a different color. He knew his was going to be blond, and messy.

"That Mr. Beauregarde's a piece of work, Willy," said Grandpa Joe. "Does he think about anything besides cars?"

"Do I care? What about _our_ Mrs. Beauregarde? Does she think about anything other than winning?" Agitation was building in Willy's voice. "And what's with Scarface? He's in this scene too, and it's starting to bug me."

"The Violets have gum in common."

It was Mr. Bucket, and hearing his soothing voice, with his unflappable manner, everyone felt calmer. Willy chuckled. "They made a mistake, killing you off."

Boiling laundry boiled onto the screen and every Bucket watching thought how warm and nice a laundry would be compared to their old, drafty, dilapidated house. Maybe that's where this Charlie gets his clothes from, thought Charlie. From other people's abandoned laundry. Movie Charlie entered the scene, brave, and someone Charlie recognized at first, helping his mother by stirring the clothes, but then he began to whine, and off-screen Charlie hung his head. It wasn't that he wouldn't think these things this other Charlie said. It was that he would never say them out loud; not to the person—people—who were doing their best for him. Indulging himself in that way would only make them feel bad. That must be true, because the song movie Charlie's mother sang when movie Charlie left was a sad one, full of disappointment that Charlie was losing faith.

Willy couldn't stand it. "That's the moon, not a star," he grumbled.

Mike Teevee was next. Willy perked up to watch this part; he had had hopes for the Mike he had met, but the boy had been too angry, and too resistant. This one was single-minded, determined, and rude.

 _"_ _Can't you shut-up? I'm busy."_

His mother was proud of that, on all points.

 _"_ _I serve all of his TV dinners right here. He's never even been to the table."_

Having had enough of brats and their useless parens, Willy hit pause, and stood up. "I'm serious. Who is this Scarface? You can see him right there, sitting on the sofa, making a mess of the conversation with the microphone. I know most of this story, having lived it, and I know nothing about him."

"Keep it going, Mr. Wonka, we don't have all night!"

"Dad!" Mrs. Bucket admonished, and then turned to Willy. "Maybe we'll find out when Charlie finds his ticket. Scarface seems to be whispering something to the ticket winners."

"Good point." Resuming his seat, Willy pushed play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._ _Thanks to_ ** _Squirrela, elevat0r, The Silly Storyteller, [sW3zc],_** _and_ ** _Sonny_ _April,_** _for your reviews. sW3zc, a friendly recommendation: if you're going to use the effects of Vitamin Wonka to communicate, practice first._


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie found the money, but not before Willy had a chance to chortle over a newscaster's commentary about his contest.

 _"…_ _We must remember there are many more important things, many more important things … Off-hand I can't think of what they are, but I'm sure there must be something."_

" _Not just some something_ ," muttered Willy.

Movie Grandpa Joe produced another chocolate bar, devoid of ticket, but Mrs. Bucket concluded the 'never out of bed' declaration to be overblown, as she had expected. Charlie didn't know about the bar, and if Charlie didn't know about it, who had purchased it? It might have been his mother—how odd; that would be her—but wouldn't she—me—want in on the opening of it? I'm sure I would! Grandpa Joe was taking all the credit.

The no-pun-intended touching hug at the end of the scene brought a hush to the room, with one exception. "Of course the Golden Tickets don't make the chocolate taste terrible! Gold is inert."

Mr. Bucket saw the expression of love as the reason he'd been bumped off. So short-sighted; there was love enough for everyone in this world if you believed it, but maybe this director didn't. Feeling sorry for the man, Mr. Bucket let his shoulders slump; maybe the root of the decision was budget concerns. It was only a movie.

Willy laughed when the Queen showed up at a Wonka Bar auction, but stopped the movie when a case of Wonka bars became a ransom request. Leaning to his left, his face not more than a foot from hers, Willy asked Mrs. Bucket, "If that were the case you found yourself in, what would _you_ do with the case?"

Mrs. Bucket, Willy's violet eyes unnervingly boring holes into hers, nevertheless answered without a hitch. Her hand had already found her husband's. "I'd immediately hand over the case of Wonka bars."

"Thought so," said Willy, suddenly nonchalant. Satisfied, he let the movie play.

Georgina picked the oddest times to be coherent, but a Spanish man reporting the finding of the last Golden Ticket in Paraguay, was one of them. "Isn't that Antonio Banderas?" She was wrong, of course, but no one cared, until George was on his feet, shaking his fist at the photograph of the so-called winner.

"It's a fake!" George declared, choking on his words, his cheeks blotched with red. "That ticket is a fake! That man couldn't have found the last Golden Ticket!"

Willy, astonished, drew back in his seat. "How do you know? I mean, it was a Russian who—"

George, incensed, wasn't listening."He's dead! We fought that man, and we won!"

The other Grands, now seeing the same thing George was seeing, hissed and jeered.

"He's a bore, man," nodded Georgina. "A Bore mann."

The movie carried on, and George sat, wondering, with the rest of his generation, at the taste of this director, and his choice of photographs. Movie Charlie, awake and hearing the grown-ups discussing amongst themselves this sad development, became sad himself, his eyes filling with tears.

I know how that feels, thought Charlie.

 _"_ _I don't care very much for chocolate."_ In school the next day, that was movie Charlie's next comment about chocolate, and Willy, seeing Charlie cringe, kept his thoughts to himself. This was proving a difficult movie, and a thought like itching-powder was beginning to scratch its way around the edges of his brain. What if he weren't _he_ , as these around him weren't _they_? It set his teeth on edge.

Money glinted bright in a drain. Eagle-eyed, movie Charlie spotted it. Bill, with a harumph, took it, and movie Charlie wolfing chocolate pulled Willy back to the plot. _"_ _That_ decimation doesn't look like you don't care much for chocolate."

With those harrowing weeks of starvation conjured by this scene, Charlie vividly remembered how that God-sent chocolate had tasted: like the brush of multi-colored pinpoints of fireworks painting the night; like meteors streaking across darkness, lighting up the world; like angels singing. Forget about the Golden Ticket he didn't find in that candy bar. That candy bar had been better than the Golden Ticket. That candy bar had been a renewed promise that life would go on. The Golden Ticket he found in the next bar was just icing on the chocolate: the promise of the first bar fulfilled.

Charlie doubted Willy could ever understand what the sweet taste of that bar from Heaven had meant to him; he was sure Willy thought the thrill was the Golden Ticket. He'd speak now; tell Willy what that first chocolate on that day had meant to him, but Charlie didn't dare, lest the pain of his remembered warring ecstasy and despair hurt Willy with its reality. The best he could do was clear his throat, but that proved enough.

"I know you love chocolate, Charlie," Willy murmured, leaning close to him. "I know that."

"Shush," said Mrs. Bucket, unaware, as Willy was aware, of the emotions her son was re-living. "Here's Scarface."

"A well-dressed Scarface," said Willy, eagerly diverted, and eagerly on the edge of his seat. Scarface introduced himself. "Did he just say his name was Are-Sir? Are-Sir Slugworth? Cuz I'm here to tell you, that guy ain't Are-Sir Slugworth, or even Kay-Lady Slugworth, cuz I know what Mr. Slugworth looks like, and that ain't him." Willy's tight-knit hands danced with each other as he listened to the rest of the scene. There was talk of Everlasting Gobstoppers. Are-Sir was fanning money. "Ten thousand of those? What are those? Does he mean ten thousand packets of money? Ten thousand single notes? Are they ones? Hundreds? Thousands? Does anyone here think this is a good deal?"

"Willy, we think it's a movie, and we think we should watch it."

"I think it's bribery and theft!"

For once, Willy agreed with Josephine.

"It's hard to believe candy brings this out in people!"

Willy shook his head, agreeing with Mrs. Bucket as well, but there was nothing new about that.

At home, movie Charlie burst into the room, his excitement filling it. There were Bucket nods all around: it had been just this way. Reading what was written on the ticket, Charlie's choice was Joe.

"What am I? Chopped liver?"

Mrs. Bucket had thought she wouldn't be heard, but Mr. Bucket surprised her. "Chopped cabbage, dear."

"At least we know I can walk."

So, it turned out, could Grandpa Joe. Mrs. Bucket sat back, and sniffed. "I knew that man was a faker."

"I've got to agree," said Grandpa Joe. "All I could manage was a little jig, but this man is cutting the rug! And singing! That's energy, for you!"

The Oompa-Loompas tittered, because there was only one thing on earth better than dancing and singing, and these Buckets ought to do more of both.

Willy's face clouded. This Grandpa Joe was claiming the Golden Ticket as his, and talking about _his_ luck changing. Did he have to claim _everything_? What was Charlie, the true changer-of-the-luck …chopped liver? By the end of the song, Willy, tired of rolling his eyes, had stopped watching. The sound of the band revived his flagging spirits. There were the inadequate gates. There was his name in iron. There was the crowd. There were those wretched, nasty, uncouth brats.

 _"_ _Hey, Johnny! Hey, Johnny! Over here!"_

"Who do you suppose Johnny is?" asked Eshle, wondering if he had something to do with the music. The band wasn't all that good.

Mike Teevee appeared on screen, and Willy smiled at the cowboy clothes. Willy liked a costume, and so, apparently, did this boy. He wasn't shy about the cameras either, and when he yelled out, _'hey, Fish-face'_ , Willy giggled. "Maybe Fish-face is Johnny."

 _"…_ _That legendary magician, Willy Wonka."_

Willy's attention was back on the screen. "I'm legendary," he said, but to all in the room he seemed nervous.

Are-Sir was seen in the crowd, and Mr. Bucket hissed.

Willy smiled, trying to get comfortable in his chair. Veruca wanted to go in first. Her father answered as if from a tape. _"Anything you say, sweetheart."_ Beh, thought Willy, horrified. Augustus, pun-intended, weighed in; that is, his mother did. She recommended Augustus save some room for later. Good advice. This, Willy reflected, was very bit as bad as the day of _his_ tour. Willy's nerves had been flayed on that day, and they were fast flaying, er, fraying themselves now. Where was his walking-stick? Oh, my gosh! Mrs. Gloop took the food out of fatty's hand! Was there hope for die deutschen? There was movie Charlie. Real Charlie was splitting his attention between the screen and him. The moment was approaching.

 _"_ _We're going to see the greatest of them all, Mr. Willy Wonka."_

With tight lips, a corner of Willy's mouth pulled down. This Grandpa Joe wasn't getting _everything_ wrong. Where was his top hat? The clock struck ten. Terror struck in Willy's heart. This was it! He'd see … him, Gene Wilder, as _him,_ Willy Wonka! They were all watching: movie crowd … this crowd … dividing their attention … the screen, him … him, the screen. Willy could see the entirely inadequate door, to the entirely bland building, begin to open. It pulled wide. There was no one there. Wonderful! I'd do that! But then Willy saw a shadow…

"Wait! Wait! Wait! Stop the movie!"

"You've got the remote," said Mr. Bucket, but that wasn't true, because Willy, when he had jumped to his feet, had sent it skittering, and Mr. Bucket, seeing that, had moved from his place to scoop it up. Even now, the dead man was pushing 'pause'.

"I'm not dressed!"

All eyes in the room turned to gape at him. There wasn't a moment of the day or night Willy wasn't dressed, as far as they knew, and this evening wasn't any different. It was true Willy didn't have his top-hat with him, but his chocolate hair shone, and the black-velvet, shawl-collared, silver-on-midnight-blue brocade lounging robe that he wore covered him from his neck, to his gloved hands, to his stockinged, 'W' emblazoned, slippered feet.

"I can't meet Mr. Wilder looking like this! I'll be right back!"

Watching Willy's swirls of layered fabric fly from the room, those he left gave a communal shrug, and settled down for what they hoped would not be a very long wait.

* * *

 _I read, on a very important trivia site, that the photo of the fake ticket winner is a photo of Martin Bormann. And that yelling of the name Johnny was too much to resist._ _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _Thanks to_ ** _Squirrela, The Silly Storyteller,_** ** _Sonny_ _April,_** ** _Guest, mattTheWriter072,_** _and_ ** _Rendezvous Haver,_** _for your reviews. They're wonderful. Guest: is that you XXCandyLoverXX? The answer is yes, I will, and thanks for the request._


	6. Chapter 6

Shining black silk interrupted the Oompa-Loompas discussion of popcorn additives, as they had taken this impromptu intermission as a welcome opportunity to refill their buckets. Ever helpful, they refilled the Bucket's buckets, too; those that wanted more, least ways, and Willy, shortly sashaying back into the room ready for battle, touched the brim of his top hat to them in appreciative recognition.

As Willy re-took his chair, Grandpa Joe and Charlie exchanged knowing smiles. Willy was dressed exactly as he had been on the day of his tour, minus, naturally, the great coat. As if picking up on those thoughts, Willy thought it time to mention the timing.

"They have the wrong date, ya know," he confided, as if he had never left. "It's February, not October; I mean, not today, it's August today; well, a day can't be a month, but—"

"Sure," said Mr. Bucket, sensitive to the nerves that were causing the babble that would eventually end in a 'heh'. "But there's no snow. It looks like it _is_ October in wherever this is; February would cost more." Having thought it, Mr. Bucket was becoming obsessed with the idea of budget constraints being the reason for his deadly-dreary absence from this film.

"'Kay, I get cha, my dear Absentia; make the movie play," laughed Willy. "I'm ready. Everyone else ready?"

Amid the nods and murmurs, Mr. Bucket handed Willy the remote. That, Mr. Bucket knew, was what Willy really wanted. Pleased to be so understood, Willy pushed play. Mr. Wilder as Mr. Wonka appeared, and Willy pushed pause. Two seconds later, squirming in his chair, he pushed play. And then he pushed pause. And then he—

"Stop that!" snarled George. "You'll get used to it! We did!"

Chagrined, Willy pushed play. The entire room watched Mr. Wilder as Mr. Wonka limp down the first step.

"I'm limping," said Willy, as sad as he was confused. "Why am I limping?" The limping foot reached the foot of the stairs. Noticing more, and now alarmed, Willy sat up straighter. "He has his hand in his pocket! It will stretch the fabric!"

"Shush," hissed Mrs. Bucket. Compared with the spare Mr. Wonka they knew, Gene Wilder was a presence, and she wanted to see him. There was the hat; there was the cane; there was the frock coat—purple, yes—the bow at his throat was a little strange; weird shirt, Willy would have a vest over that; there were the beige trousers; wait … beige? Willy wouldn't be caught dead in beige! Oops. Mrs. Bucket shook her head, wondering how this would play out. Willy took his look seriously. Uh-oh; brown shoes; did Willy own a pair of brown shoes?

Mr. Wilder limped along, and with every step the ersatz Chocolatier took, the room grew quieter, until he planted his cane in a crack in the pavement, and finding himself without it, toppled forwards. The room gasped, but not Willy. He was holding his breath. At the last minute, Mr. Wilder tucked into a summersault, bouncing to his feet with a bright smile lighting his face. Willy popped up with him, giggling and applauding. The Oompa-Loompas exchanged glances, as did Grandpa Joe and Charlie. Willy's reaction was so much like his reaction to the puppet show. Mr. Wilder greeted the crowd, and as he turned his sanguine gaze to the waiting winners, Willy sat back down.

"Is it just me," Willy wondered, a coy finger to his lips, "or does my impersonator want us to read between the lines?"

Mr. Wilder had used two fingers to beckon the winners forward, and it did rather look as if he were perhaps expressing an opinion at the same time. If so, it didn't bother Willy. Introductions took place, with Willy becoming more uncomfortable with each one. "There's a lot of shaking people warmly by the hand going on here," he said, dubiously. "And I'm not seeing my gloves."

"Not to mention all the sarcasm you're dishing out," threw in Grandpa George.

"Did that little boy just smack you with a gun?" huffed Grandma Josephine.

"Not me," said Willy, cringing all the same.

"Despicable!" said Grandma Georgina.

" _That_ boy's not afraid," said Grandpa Joe.

" _That_ boy's got no sense," sniffed Mrs. Bucket.

"I've got no limp."

It was true; with the introductions over, the herd was heading for the stable. Er, the coterie was heading for the factory, with Mr. Wilder in the lead, as athletic as all get out. It made Willy proud: Willy was graceful when he wasn't running smack into the Great Glass Elevator, but lacking stamina, he didn't consider himself athletic.

Inside the factory, the coat hooks were hands. A murmur went up among the Oompa-Loompas.

"Anybody want that duty?" whispered Doris.

"Not in _my_ Factory," said Willy. "What a waste of time. Just have them throw their coats anywhere. With as little going out and going in as we do, it's not as if coats are a big issue."

"Those hands make me think of the Addams Family," said Eshle.

"The thing of it is," Willy nodded, "I 'Thing' so, too."

"What's this?" said Mr. Bucket, hoping to get the movie watching back on track.

'This' was a contract. A great, big, silly contract. Seeing it, Willy laughed outright, but as the scene played out, Willy's laugh died, his expression becoming thoughtful. Charlie wondered what had brought on the change, but hesitated to ask.

 _"_ _Ninety-nine forty-four one hundred percent pure."_

"Ivory soap," chorused Mrs. Bucket, Doris, Willy, and Eshle together. Their laughter was simultaneous, as well.

 _"_ _Just through the other door please."_

That ended the laughter. Upon seeing what came next, Willy was on his feet, his nerd filled candy-cane clutched in his hand. "Yeah, no, that is not happening."

No one in the room needed an explanation. Crammed like sardines into a tiny room painted with eye-dazzling geometrics, Mr. Wilder was crushed against the crowd as they struggled to find the other door. The other door was the first door, a feat Willy appreciated, but the methodology being used was a non-starter. When they gained the next corridor, Willy was as relieved as the winners were. With a sigh, he sat down. "This tour may be too exciting for me."

Willy wasn't the only one to feel that way. With the way ahead clear, Mrs. Teevee and Mr. Beauregarde expressed a desire to call it quits. Willy, hands clasped, leaned forwards in his chair, aquiver to hear Mr. Wilder's answer.

 _"_ _Oh, you can't get out backwards; you've gotta go forwards to go back. Better press on."_

The thoughtful look was back on Willy's face, and Charlie wondered again what it meant. A member of the screen tour group wondered where the chocolate was. Hearing his alter-ego reply, _"I doubt there is any"_ , Grandpa Joe shook his fist. "I'd never say that!" With hooded eyes Willy glanced sideways at him, the thoughtful look there still, but with something like sympathy creeping into it.

The Chocolate Room changed everything.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _Thanks to **XXCandyLoverXX,**_ ** _The Silly Storyteller, Squirrela, Linkwonka88,_** _and_ ** _Sonny_ _April_** _for your reviews. They're wonderful. And so is punctuation, tee-hee. Capitalization is capital for being clear about... Never mind! ;-D_


	7. Chapter 7

_"…_ _You are now about to enter the nerve center to the entire Wonka factory…"_

"He's starting with the _Inventing Room_?"

The squeak at the end of Willy's question made his incredulity palpable.

Offended by the preposition, Grandma Josephine plopped her crocheting into her lap. "Did he say, 'to'? Shouldn't that be 'of'?"

 _"...Inside this room all of my dreams become realities..."_

"Sounds like the Inventing Room," said Doris, folding her arms across her chest.

 _"…_ _And some of my realities become dreams…"_

"I understand the first part," said Mrs. Bucket, trying to follow, "but what does saying it that-a-way even mean?"

"Who knows?" crowed a gleeful George. "Failures, Mr. Wonka? Is that what he's getting at?"

"I never fail," said Willy, unhappily thinking to himself of another implication of that phrase, "and I started with the Chocolate Room. I don't always _succeed_ on the first try, but…"

Interrupted by his alter ego and looks from the others as the movie played on, Willy's voice trailed off.

 _"…_ _And almost everything you'll see is eatable … edible … I mean, you can eat almost everything…"_

"Does he not know what 'eatable' means?" asked Willy, shifting in his chair with annoyance. "Must he be so pedantic? Stretch your brain, Mr. Wilder, I'm a fun kinda guy. And by the way, 'eatable' makes this the Chocolate Room."

Mr. Wilder cautioned an impatient Augustus not to lose his head, ending with an ominous _'...yet.'_

"Yak!" shrilled Georgina, laughing and waving her arms. "Run, August, run!"

Exchanging glances, the word 'yak' ran through the ranks of the Buckets.

"Yes, yak!" said Georgina again, wondering at their wonder. They knew the story.

"Yeah, I get cha," said Willy, with a nod to Georgina, and then to Eshle, who nodded back. They were both thinking Whangdoodles. What with Georgina's theatrics, it was a _charging_ yak that came to mind, and that not a yak with a credit card. "That _was_ a threat ... or a promise. Did I make threats like that?"

"Not that I remember," said Charlie.

"Not that I remember," said Grandpa Joe.

"Speaking from the dead, I have to agree that losing one's head on a tour doesn't sound healthy," said Mr. Bucket dryly.

"I shouldn't think so," said Willy, with a curt laugh. His eyes went wide, and then narrowed. "Though I will say, there's no accounting for participant behavior." He raised an appreciative brow at Charlie and Grandpa Joe for their input, and they bowed back at him. "But I hope there _is_ no head-losing in this: head-losing is so messy." Nodding in agreement with himself, but not at all sure of this movie, Willy's lips formed a momentary frown of dread.

Implacably, the movie moved on, with all threats forgotten as a musical lock played and the small-tall door opened, revealing the Chocolate Room in all its glory. Stepping into the room, the group landed on a landing overlooking the mouthwatering scene. With a panoramic sweep, faces stunned, the group took in the colorful candy dreamscape, their eyes and minds alive with delight at the spectacle. Screen Charlie licked his lips, and seeing it, Charlie laughed with happy remembrance: with a place like the Chocolate Room in the world, hunger hadn't a chance.

Mr. Wilder had hung back, letting their reactions be their own, with no influence from him. Now he stepped forwards, his face as full of wonder at the room he himself had created as were those of the people seeing it for the first time. It was clear to the watchers that this Wonka was as proud of his room as Willy was of his, and all that he saw on-screen, gave off-screen Willy a tingling, warm feeling inside.

 _"_ _Hold your breath…"_

There was no need to say it: Willy was already holding his. Mr. Wilder broke into song, and Willy exhaled, nervously surveying the Buckets. Not a one noticed his check on them, entranced to the point of enrapture as they were.

The Oompa-Loompas weren't so easily impressed. The Chocolate Room was their labor of love, and this version was paltry. Why, the floor was flat! Where were the hills? The valleys? The vistas?

"Is it just me," whispered Doris to Eshle, "or do those industrial light shades throughout ruin the effect?"

"They ruin it," nodded back Eshle.

And then, catching up with the watching Oompa-Loompas, the watching Buckets became concerned. Mr. Wilder's walking-stick was like a sword, cutting through the air: even as screen Wonka led them down the steps into the room, he and his walking-stick maneuvered to block their paths. The words being sung were sweet, soaring with promise, but the actions that accompanied them were defensive. The looks screen Willy shot his ticket winners between lyrics were nothing short of hostile. Willy, watching, understood what was warring within on-screen Wonka's head, and smiling the smallest of smiles to himself, he approved: revealing oneself, planned or not, marvelous or not, was fraught with risk.

The on-screen group got the message: by the time screen Wonka had reached the last half of the second set of stairs, they were well behind him. But maybe that was because…

"Did that man just pull a hair out of that boy's head?" asked an indignant Josephine.

"I'd say more than one," said Grandpa Joe.

"That looked like it hurt," said Mrs. Bucket.

"I'd say that man's walking a thin line," said George, his lips mimicking his words. "Did you hear what the lyrics are through there? _"Anything you want to, do it…"_ While all the while he was stroking that boy's hair! Is the man a pedophile?"

"Hey!" cried Willy, offended enough to think about getting to his feet, but not offended enough to do it. "That's enough! I wouldn't touch a hair on anyone's head! The only thing I peddle a pile of is candy!"

Titters erupted from every Oompa-Loompa in the place, and from a few of the Buckets. Willy and touching, though not entirely ruled out, were like oil and water. Everybody knew that. A collective sigh of relief rose to the ceiling as the bottom of the steps were reached. Screen Wonka bowed himself out of the way, and the group ran off. Mr. Wilder continued singing, and both Wonkas relaxed; there was nothing not wonderful about a Chocolate Room, where ever it was.

Willy, who until this point had been stopping the movie every six seconds, hadn't paused it at all in an eon. Mrs. Bucket, watching the cavorting on-screen, spoke up.

"Aren't you going to stop the movie and tell us what you think?" Getting no response, she added, "Willy?"

"About what?"

"About the song. The room. You."

"The song? I think it has a nice tune. Mr. Wilder has a high voice, like mine. He's singing it well. I think it's poppycock, though I'd sing it myself."

Doris and Eshle nodded, shaking hands with each other. Mr. Bucket felt all was right with the world with that analysis, and beaming, he sat on his hands with satisfaction.

"Poppycock? How can you say that?"

"It's the phrase, mostly, 'pure imagination'. That's no where _I_ would want to live."

"Willy! That's not fair!"

The song had progressed, and so had the movie. Mr. Wilder-as-Wonka was sitting amongst cupped flowers, sipping from one of them.

"That's a good idea," said Willy, turning to Eshle. "Buttercups, with real cups of butter. Hmm. Butter might not be that great."

"What about butterscotch?" asked Charlie.

"Yeah, butterscotch, would be good. Let's do that!"

Eshle made a note, and Mrs. Bucket butted in. "That's imagination for you," she said. "What's wrong with that?"

"That's not imagination," said Willy, with a decided sniff. "That's watching a movie and deciding to copy something I see. And you, as I can, can see that they have it wrong. Those cups, are _not_ on buttercup plants. I assure you, I'm modifying an idea here, and that's all. And, I assure you, I'll be a-sure to a-credit this film as the source. In ant writing, I will, on every cup and saucer. And, when _I_ do it, I'll use _authentic_ buttercup foliage."

"Ant writing?"

"Writing too small to see unless you're an ant, as you saw at the bottom of the contract at the beginning of the movie," explained Eshle.

"Yeah, that," agreed Willy.

"But 'pure imagination'… How can you forsake that?"

Willy had had enough of Mrs. Bucket's starry-eyed badgering. Flights of fancy ended in crashes for those who took them too seriously, and it was time she came to grips with that. "Shall I show you some 'pure imagination'?" he asked, in that silky voice of his.

Mrs. Bucket felt the misgiving that manifested itself as a gulp. "Okay."

Willy hit pause, and then he hit rewind. Events moved backwards until … Veruca knelt with a colored ball in her hands, trying to bash it open on a rock. Willy hit pause. "Do you see that little girl, my dear Mrs. Bucket? That is not 'pure imagination'. That is blood on her knee: red blood. Red blood is on that little girl's knee because that is a rock; a real rock, and not 'pure imagination'. All of that room, and all of my room, are real, because imagination realized _is_ real. Being made real is imagination's greatest achievement.

"Why should I, or anyone, want to live in a world of _pure_ , one hundred percent, imagination? It would mean I, or they, would accomplish nothing in their life but a dream state. Is that what you long for, my dear Mrs. Bucket? To sleep through your life? Not so me, my dear lady, and I hope so, too, not your dear Charlie. Ninety-nine forty-four one hundredths _pure_ imagination is good enough for me, as it is for the me on that screen, whether you see that or not."

But here Willy bit his lip, because he wasn't convinced that the man Gene Wilder was bringing to life on the screen before them knew that or not: that man might be serious about where he wanted to live, and that would be awful. With the jury still out, Willy pressed on.

"So what do I think? I think I'd hum it all day, it's a pretty song, and well sung, but I'd take little of it to heart. _'Anything_ you want to, do it'? Anything? Anything at all? See how far that philosophy gets you in the world. And the chorus ... another word for a person who lives entirely in a world of 'pure imagination' is 'insane'. _I_ , my dear dreamer, am not _insane_."

Mrs. Bucket, lost in her dismay at this reaction to a silly song, her hand fluttering in the air, not knowing whether to pat Willy's arm or cover her mouth, turned crimson. She should have known he'd have strong opinions when it came to the part imagination played in life. Maybe she did know, but hadn't believed he'd express them. She'd made a terrible mistake. "Willy! I didn't mean to imply that you are insa—"

Willy, shifting his eyes from hers, and tilting his head in a way that made the brim of his hat a barrier, hit play, letting the movie drown her out.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _Thanks to **Sonny April,**_ ** _The Silly Storyteller, Squirrela,_** _and **mattTheWriter072**_ _for your reviews. They're wonderful. And thank you for the compliment on my diction. One of my mother's favorite words, where appropriate, 'ersatz' is a word I would never eschew. :-)_


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Gloop came to the rescue. _"What a disgusting, dirty river,"_ she said, and all eyes turned back to the screen. Mr. Salt agreed. _"It's industrial waste, that…"_

Willy lost it, tittering. "Oh, look, they're decrying the sludge flowing next to the Swudge! Hey! Why didn't Mr. Wilder's imagination see fit to point out that: my beautiful Swudge? I would! Did ... whatever."

Mr. Wilder declared the sludge chocolate, and the on-screen crowd marveled. The seated Oompa-Loompas snickered. Willy stopped the movie. "Quiz time. Everyone take out a pencil." Willy produced his from a pocket in his coat, complete with notebook. Charlie, not Willy's apprentice for nothing, did the same. The others, well… "No looking at your neighbor's paper." The Buckets stirred. "Is that a no-pencil-or-paper stirring I'm hearing?" asked Willy, raising a brow. "Use your pure imaginations then, and pretend you have both. Question one: Are we seeing before us the proper viscosity for melted chocolate of the finest quality?"

The Oompa-Loompas shook their heads.

"'No' is correct," nodded Willy, "but speak up, for the record. Question two: What is missing from it, that would make it look so watery?"

"Cacao butter!" chorused almost everyone.

Willy beamed. "Exactly so," he said, settling back in his chair. "This movie is batting a thousand. No one and nothing is who or what they are, and that includes my chocolate river. Can you imagine that they, the makers of this movie, would think that anyone would want to eat my chocolate if they, the eaters of my chocolate, thought it looked anything like what they have on display up there! Ever? Anything? Eww!" Willy's shoulders shuddered as if he were shaking off a bad dream, but surprising everyone, the next thing he did was chuckle with glee. "But Mr. Salt is all wrong! That's not industrial waste they've got going on there: that's Are-Sir's waste! They musta seen _Slugworth's_ chocolate, and copied _that_!"

"Start the movie, already," griped George, sure that in another minute, Willy was going to lose it completely; he was already doubled-over, laughing as if oxygen were in short supply. "Charlie, grab that doohickey and press play."

But like a precious gem, Willy clutched the remote to his chest, and with tears in his eyes, pressed play.

 _"…_ _It's mixing my chocolate. It's actually churning my chocolate…"_

Mr. Wilder brought the crowd's attention to the waterfall, and Willy's laughter began anew, but with a desperate edge to it. "That? That paltry piffle is supposed to be my chocolate fall? To mix my chocolate?" The pathos of that pitiful fall, and what it was meant to do, was too much. It was laugh or cry, and laughing always came with fewer questions, and less interference.

Charlie leaned towards his mentor. This was becoming alarming. "Willy." The man was about rocking himself out of his chair.

"Charlie." The rocking slowed, as Willy sought to elaborate. "You must see that that _excuse_ wouldn't mix cream in coffee! Milk in tea! Sugar in lemonade!"

"I'm sure it's budget constraints that make it so small," said Mr. Bucket, leaning in from Willy's other side.

Budget constraints. Yeah, that was it. They weren't really making fun of his methods. The movie played on. Willy pulled himself together. It was sober up, or else. The by-seaters were closing in. The tears were back in his eyes, and the next thing ya knew, they'd be asking him from which side of the spectrum these tears were coming. To Willy's relief, on-screen Willy made sobering up easy. _He_ was far too close to Mr. Salt, confiding in how to get the chocolate mixing ' _just right.'_ It was just the antidote he needed, and trust the trusty Mr. Wilder to provide it. "Eww," breathed Willy, repulsed, his back now pressed against the back of his chair.

Charlie squirmed. It was a long time ago, and to a different person, but what Mr. Wilder was doing was eerily similar to what Mr. Wonka had done. Curiosity eating at him, Charlie dared. "Why do you say, 'eww', Willy? You did the same thing to Mrs. Beauregarde … in the Inventing Room."

"Ah, yes," agreed Willy, with nary a pause, "the 'mostly baton' Mrs. Beauregarde! A woman who knew so little about what she wanted, while thinking she knew so much about what she was willing to do to get it! Turns out, she didn't love me as much as she thought she would, and that found out, just one room later."

"Mrs. Beauregarde thought she loved you?"

"No, my dear Grandpa Joe, she didn't, but she wanted me to _think_ she did. You were there. Did you miss that? Never mind. Promises, promises." With a flick of his wrist, normally reserved for dismissal of thoughts unconducive, Willy nevertheless favored them both with a sideways glance full of calculation. "I knew she wouldn't like it if I treated her in kind, but she thought she'd try that route, so… I do confess, whispering in her ear _was_ repulsive, but, touchy subject, Mr. Wilder here seems not to mind at all, but I do, so I say again: 'eww', and double 'eww', and triple 'eww'—"

"We get it, already! Shush!"

"Hey! You interrupted me! I was gonna stop, Georgie, dearest, honest I was. Now watch the movie. You're interrupting Charlie."

 _"_ _Grandpa, look over there across the river! They're little men!"_

For a moment, everyone watched the screen, taking in the orange skin, green hair, white eyebrows, and peculiar uniforms of the little men across the river. Then Willy swung around in his chair, rested his chin on his crossed forearms, and lifted his eyes to meet Eshle's and Doris's, seated behind him on stools, looking down at him. "Looks like it's yer turn," he said. "What d'ya think?"

The Oompa-Loompas were sitting all about the room, most on the steps that formed the platform the television sat on, but any place with a high vantage point would do, and they were all being used. While their counterparts on screen fiddled with sacks and wheel barrows, spouts and a white liquid, they were instantly abuzz with one another, and that meant the entire room was abuzz. Willy hit pause, and waited. Murmurs and whispers aside, the hand signals were flying, and even Willy was having trouble keeping up. Charlie, though he tried valiantly, had no chance.

"How about this weather we've been having lately," said Mrs. Bucket, to no one in particular. This might take awhile—an impromptu conference had clearly broken out amongst those that made the Factory run—but aside from the odd gesture and salute, she knew little of this language.

Soon enough, the hand signals died down, the whispering abated, and Willy was all ears for the verdict. "Well?"

"W-well…" Eshle stumbled on the word, and cleared his throat, still in shock. "We didn't expect… We've heard of this tribe … In stories that were told to us by our elders around the campfires. We didn't know whether to believe them. The story was always told as a cautionary tale, about a time before our time. Many years ago, it went, this other, bigger-boned tribe lived on the other side of Loompaland. Then, one day, they vanished … never to be seen again."

"One of the storytellers would throw up their arms and laugh manically at this point, scaring us to the roots of our hair, and then we'd be told to beware; that the same could happen to us," confided Doris.

"It looks like it did," muttered Mrs. Bucket.

"We'd all scream," Doris continued, "because the conclusion we reached was that they'd all been eaten-up by our land's assorted terrible beasts, because what other explanation was there?"

"Aliens!" cried out Georgina.

"One alien, anyway," giggled Willy. "Great minds think alike."

"According to legend they called themselves the Loompa-Oompas," said the Oompa-Loompa in charge of security.

"Mr. Wilder called them Oompa-Loompas," said Mr. Bucket, mildly, "the same as you call yourselves."

Willy laughed, thinking back to earlier in the movie. "I'll bet that's a 'strike that; reverse it' paperwork issue. Once they got to the Factory, I doubt they'd quibble."

"As I said," Eshle continued, "they lived in small caves, riddled with narrow passageways, on the other side of Loompaland, where the hills are. You can see that they're too big to fare well in tree houses. Plus, that side of Loompaland is where most of the terrible beasts live. The Loompa-Oompas had to live in caves, or they'd have had no chance at all."

"And the orange skin?"

"Eating cacao beans darkens our skin."

"To orange?"

"If you eat too many at once," said Doris.

"I've never seen that," said Willy, though he did allow that the Oompa-Loompas had dark skin.

"That's not something you'd want the boss to see," said Eshle, folding his arms across his chest. He ran a tight ship, and don't let anyone forget it.

"If you ask me," sniffed Josephine, pointing her crochet hook at the screen like a scalpel, "those persons up there must be eating cacao beans morning, noon, and night. It's a wonder they get anything done."

"And the green hair? And white eyebrows?"

Doris laughed. "We assume that's one of your candies gone wrong, or gone right, as the case may be."

Willy grinned. "Nothing I've got. But ya know, maybe we can add something to Hair Toffee, to make it change your hair color, as well as make it grow. Green is good. White's kinda boring. And how _about_ changing skin colors?"

"They wear their hair identically, the way you guys do," said Charlie, to head off the brainstorming for the moment. Willy and his tangents…

"There's safety in numbers," said Doris, "and with identical hair, when grouped together, it's hard for the Hornswogglers or other baddies to know where one Oompa-Loompa begins and the other one ends. That makes it harder for them to know where to strike."

"Stragglers beware," murmured Willy, distracted.

"If they huddled together," George observed, "their heads would look like a tree top."

"That's not a bad observation; and you made it. They'd look like a neon-green tree top."

George rolled his eyes at Willy's left-handed compliment, but the smile at the corners of his lips gave away his pleasure.

"I'm sorry," said Charlie, sticking to the topic. "I don't mean to remind you of bad times."

"That's quite all right, Charlie," said Doris, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "We're here now, but old habits die hard."

Willy was studying the haberdashery before him, not offended by the stripes he saw, thrilled by the gloves, but pleased with little else. What about Eshle and Doris? "Did you guys want to change to uniforms like those?" he asked, sotto voce. "They have gloves."

"Did you want a workforce, Mr. Wonka?" sang back Eshle, with Doris nodding, as if the suggestion were a live grenade he was tossing back to the tosser. "We wear gloves when we need to."

Willy laughed with relief. "To respond with kid-gloves, in the face of your displeasure, would that be a 'not on your life'? Cuz if it is, we so agree!" Willy dropped the sotto voce, and returned to plain speaking. "So what gives with those duds of duds? They're wearing them. Why hasn't there been a revolt?"

"Whiskers, I should think," said Doris, squinting at the screen. "Clunky, awful, whiskers. Remember, they come from caves."

"And are in them still, judging by the entrance they made," nodded Willy. "I see what you mean."

"I don't see," said Joe. "What are you getting at?"

"Whiskers!" cried Willy. "Cats! Maybe cocoa cats. Light or no light, cats use their whiskers to tell them when a space will be too small for them to get through. Those uniforms would do the same. You see how the trousers have that 'poof' a mite wider than their shoulders? When that starts to collapse inwards, they would know they were getting into a tight place. Seems inefficient to me, but—"

"BUT, yak, yak, yak! Are we going to watch this movie, or is Hell going to freeze over?"

George's exasperated cry filled the room. All eyes in the room went to him; and then to Willy.

"You're a real buttinsky, you know that, George?"

But Willy must have agreed, because he hit play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _The idea that eating cacao beans turns the Oompa-Loompas skin orange is not mine. It's from the story '_ Labor Pains', _by Random Guise ... Check it out :-)_

 _Many thanks to **SillyStoryteller** ; **Squirrela** ; **Linkwonka88** ; and **Sonny April** for your reviews._ _I think the take away is that_ 'Pure Imagination' _has as many interpretations as there are imaginations._


	9. Chapter 9

_"_ _Can it, you nit!"_

"That's telling that bratty little bugger!"

"Dad!" But Mrs. Bucket lowered her head, because she secretly agreed.

"Go, Violet! Veruca may want an Oompa-Loompa, but I doubt an Oompa-Loompa wants Veruca." Willy was leaning forwards with fervor, and as he spoke, the scene changed. His fervor only increased. "Stop, Augustus! Stop Augustus!"

 _"_ _Don't worry, he can't drink it all."_

"You don't get this, do you?" said Willy, with a glare at Grandpa Joe.

Grandpa Joe had had about enough from this eccentric genius, but kept his voice conciliatory. "I do get it, Mr. Wonka. I'm beginning to wonder if you do. For the last time, that's not me."

"Oh; yeah; I'm sorry." Willy scrunched his face into a look of remorse. "I'm just not happy about what's gonna happen next."

What happened next was what they expected would happen next, but not the way any one expected it to happen. Augustus, quietly sitting on a small mound near the river, silently eating candy he'd gathered like a Heaven sent harvest, had almost been forgotten. Now he was crouched beside the river, first kneeling on one knee, and then kneeling on both, in as stable a position as one could ever hope to assume. He was scooping ostensibly chocolate into his mouth with the regularity of a metronome, and like a metronome, so set was he, that he could have continued that way all day.

Hearing Mr. Wilder's plea for Augustus to stop his scooping, his mother hastened to join him.

"She'll stop him," said Mrs. Bucket.

 _"Augustus, sweetheart, save some room for later."_

"Has anyone noticed, that's all she ever tells him? To save some room for later," observed Mrs. Bucket, still waiting for Mrs. Gloop to do her parental duty. "And she's standing right next to him. Why doesn't she grab a handful of his collar? Pull him back; make him stop."

"Because then he wouldn't fall in?" laughed Charlie.

Mr. Wilder was rushing forwards, and Mr. Wonka leapt out of his chair. "Don't do THAT!" he cried to the screen, raising his glass contained Nerds. "They'll," as Augustus went head first into the drink he'd been drinking, "blame _you_!"

Mr. Bucket could see Mr. Wonka's point, but it didn't look like Mr. Wilder had touched the boy. Still, the sound of someone rushing up behind him could have sent Augustus forwards, and that would pretty much be the same thing. "I don't think Augustus lost his balance. It looked to me like he dove right in."

"Silly man," said Willy, sinking back into his seat, "to send himself to the scene of the soaking. At least _I_ had the sense to be on the other side of the river."

"Along with all the rest of us," agreed Charlie, watching himself reach for Augustus with an all-day sucker. "Do you think the added sugar of that lollipop I have in my hands would adversely affect the sweetness ratio of the chocolate?"

Mrs. Bucket, listening to the question, thought how like Mr. Wonka Charlie was becoming.

"Doesn't matter, the entire batch is a goner," groaned Willy. "Hey! Maybe this man is onto something! Maybe, he _knew_ Gloop would get into the glop, so he made glop on the day for the Gloop to get into. That would explain the lack of quality."

"And pretty much condemn you, Willy, dear," said Mrs. Bucket, with a coy bat of her eyelashes. "Did you plan these things?"

" _I_ certainly didn't—I'm an optimist—but that's not to say that _he_ didn't. He's not me."

The calamity's chaos continued, and Willy laughed at Wilder's quips, particularly the one having to do with when it might be a good time to learn to swim.

"Why is that so funny?" asked George.

Willy hit pause. "Because," Willy drew out the 'because' as if the rest of what he were going to say was painful for him, but taking a deep breath, he went ahead. "I am mixing chocolate with my river, not dredging a navigable channel to the sea. At its deepest point, near the base of the falls, it is three feet deep only, and it's a good deal less than that everywhere else. Have you not noticed that my yacht has a flat bottom? Because a flat bottom lessens its draft; because what it floats upon is shallow. All anyone over the age of five has to do to save themselves, should they fall into my river, is to stand up."

"Panic," said Mr. Bucket.

"There is that," agreed Willy, pushing play.

The standing pipe picked up its prey, and the scene continued to play out. Speculation as to when the plug would pop proliferated, with Mr. Wilder rounding it off. _"The suspense is terrible. I hope it'll last."_

With knit brows, Willy hit pause. "That's another quote. He's been doing that all along. If there's one thing I'm not enjoying about this version of me, and it's not the only thing, it's that he can't seem to speak for himself.

"So, since he insists on borrowing, shall we have some fun? Everyone take out your pencils and paper again. Question three: Where does that quote come from?" A preponderance of blank faces stared back at him, with others looking away. Willy got to his feet, to survey the room more easily. "Really, I'm serious. If I-up-there can't be original, something I pride myself on, at least I-down-here can give credit. We all read in this Factory. Let that shine. Where's it from?"

An Oompa-Loompa seated near the control panel coughed. Willy, turning to the sound, raised a brow. " _The Importance of Being Earnest,"_ she said, "by Oscar Wilde."

"Exactly so," said Willy, giving her a bow. "Fifty cacao beans to you for getting it right. Fifty cacao beans to anyone who gets the next one right, because there's no way there's not gonna be a next one."

With a twirl of his frock coat Willy sat down and pressed play, silencing the ensuing buzz of excitement at his announcement. Sopping, stopper Augustus obligingly shot up the pipe, and Willy sat back, enjoying the repartee between his not-self and Mrs. Gloop. At the whistle, Mrs. Bucket stirred.

"I've never seen you with a whistle."

"I had one once," said Willy. "But I was forever misplacing it. I decided that was because I didn't like it. Ululating is so much more fun, and I never misplace my tongue."

 _"_ _Nil desperandum…"_

 _"_ _Odes,_ Horace!" came a shout from the back.

"Pay the winner," said Willy, with Doris making a note of who it was.

 _"…_ _dear lady. Across the desert lies the promised land…"_

"The Bible!" crowed Mrs. Bucket.

"Did you want that in cacao beans?" laughed Willy.

"I want fifty minutes of your time. Join us for dinner tomorrow."

The Loompa-Oompas had started to sing, and Willy, without answering, made much of listening to that. Shortly after the song began, the picture shrank, and the lyrics rippled and rolled across the screen in cartoon form.

George rolled his eyes. "How can the people in the factory up there see these graphics?"

"They can't," said Willy, dubiously. "I guess they think the audience can't follow this."

"This?" said Eshle, his mouth turned down in a frown.

"It rhymes," offered Willy, with a smile that was all teeth, and no smile.

The song played on, but the Oompa-Loompas weren't having it. Like electrons ordered by a magnetic field, they were on their feet, flowing together into lines for Willy and the Buckets to see, swaying and singing to their own, a cappella music.

 _"_ _Augustus Gloop! Augustus Gloop!  
_ _The great big greedy nincompoop!  
_ _Augustus Gloop! So big and vile  
_ _So greedy, foul, and infantile"_

"It hardly seems fair," said Willy, nevertheless beaming with pride for his dear, talented, Oompa-Loompas, as rather than listen to the chant from the other tribe, they were reprising their own song. "This Augustus has been one of the best behaved children in the group. It's true he chomps away on anything he can get his hands on with the dedication of a locust decimating a leaf, but his heart is in it, all his concentration is in it, and he goes about it so neatly! He's far from foul, or even infantile."

 _"_ _Come on we cried,  
_ _The time is ripe,  
_ _To send him shooting up the pipe…"_

"Too late," said George. "He already did that."

The ditty on-screen ended, and the Oompa-Loompas let the song trail off. Willy applauded, the leather of his gloves muting the sound. The Oompa-Loompas sent glances to each other like ricochets, with a smattering of hand motions thrown in. They began to chant, and Willy, more than ever convinced they were more that a touch telepathic, pressed pause.

 _"_ _Oompa-Loompa doompadee doo  
_ _How can we let a chant like that through?  
_ _Oompa-Loompa doompadah dee  
_ _That's not a song meeting our quality"_

With out-stretched arms, they brought the listeners' attention to an Oompa-Loompa near the television set. Alone, he stepped forwards and sang, in the lowest of low bases:

 _"_ _We don't like the sound of it."_

He stepped back, the rest of the Oompa-Loompas nodded, and took up the chant once more.

 _"_ _Oompa-Loompa doompadee dar  
_ _If you're inventive you will go far  
_ _You will live in happiness too  
_ _Like the Oompa-Loompa doompadee do."_

The magnetic field broke apart, and the electron like Oompa-Loompas flowed back to their original places. Eshle, having not left his place, took note of Willy twisting his head and shoulders around to see him, and not missing Willy's raised brow, answered. "What?" Eshle said. "We liked the last part. We do live in happiness here."

"Good to know," said Willy, that warm feeling he liked so much filling him. "Shall we continue?"

"By all means," said Eshle.

Willy faced forwards, and pressed play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _Thank you **Squirrela** ; **Linkwonka88** ; and **mattTheWriter072** for your thoughtful reviews and the warm feeling that is filling me for having received them. Thank you._


	10. Chapter 10

_"Mourn ye not, my journey is eternal."_

 _Today, Mr. Wilder is three years into his eternal journey, but though we may, despite the admonition, still mourn him, he is not forgotten, and neither is his work. With that as my inspiration, I resume this story._

* * *

Spooked by oddly pigmented men and the loss of the Gloops, Mr. Beauregarde gave voice to his uneasiness: _"Hey, what kind of a place you running here anyhow, Wonka?"_

"Yeah, what kind of a place _am_ I running there?" echoed Willy.

"So you noticed that," nodded George.

"How can ya miss it?"

"Miss what?" asked Mrs. Bucket, having missed it.

"Having said the fall mixes the chocolate, they're adding the ingredients to be mixed below the fall. What good does that do?"

"Details," said Mr. Bucket, with a wave of his hand.

"Maybe it's a test," said Charlie. "To see if they're observant."

"If it is, they all fail."

The movie moved on, and Willy, thoughtful, watched with the rest. Mr. Wilder's next surprising words brought Willy out of his recently entered funk. "Oh, wonderful!" he squealed, clapping his hands together and holding them to his chest. "I speak French! I do speak French! And with a better accent than that, I must say."

"And lucky us, you have said," drawled George, sarcasm dripping.

"Hush," said Mrs. Bucket, speaking over him. "We're missing it."

Thanks to Mrs. Bucket's warning, they didn't miss the appearance of a jolly looking boat decked-out in decor that looked suspiciously like one of Julie Andrews' dresses from the screen version of _Mary Poppins_ … Or perhaps it was _The Sound of Music._

" _Old man river, he don't say nothing,_ " sang out Georgina, not thinking of either of those selections.

Charlie laughed, Georgina's crooning bringing _Show Boat_ front and center, just like the boat on the screen.

"It's chugging along making engine noises—"

" _Pollution, pollution, they got smog and sewage and sludge!_ " sang out Georgina.

"Swudge, not sludge," corrected a smiling Willy, "and I don't have either of those other two things in _my_ Factory." He shook his head sadly. "That river! There go my sales, ha, ha. Get it? Sails?"

"—and yet," Mr. Bucket carried on, un-fazed by the interruptions, "as it rounds the bend, I see it's a paddle-boat, powered by a Loompa-Oompa."

"Details," giggled Willy, with a wave of his hand.

 _"_ _All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by."_

Willy's head buried itself in his formerly waving hand, a muffled groan escaping him. "No, please! Spare me! Not another quote! Just get them aboard."

 _"_ _All aboard, everybody."_

"Ahhhh! Everyone cheer. We're saved!"

There were no cheers, but, in light of developments, there was a tentative voice that spoke from the back of the room. "John Masefield, 'Sea Fever'," it said.

Wanting more than anything to grimace, Willy instead pasted a plastic smile on his face. He'd started this. "Right you are," he chirped, "but to keep all right with the world, going forwards, let's call the audio portion of this game ended." Remembering Mr. Wilder's earlier remark, Willy had a thought: a thought that presented a solution. "Henceforth, all answers must be submitted in writing." Having said the words, Willy wished he wished to giggle, but he didn't wish to, so he didn't. Instead, he frowned, wishing he hadn't said them. They'd left a bad taste in his mouth. Hearing them once was maybe funny, but trotting them out twice in an evening was trite. He sighed at his miscalculation, but finished his thought. "I'll collect them at the end."

"If we make it to the end," muttered Josephine.

"Are we mumbling?" With a sniff, Willy gathered his usual aplomb about himself like a cloak. "Mumbling bums me out." But he'd heard what she'd said, and he was beginning to have his doubts right along with her. It was odd. They usually agreed on nothing.

 _"_ _If she's a lady, I'm a Vermicious Knid."_

"Yeah," agreed Willy, still thinking about Josephine.

"Look at me, throwing around a term I heard for the first time only moments ago," said Grandpa Joe. "Do I even know what a Vermicious Knid is?"

"Sure," said Charlie, without thinking. "You've seen them. We've all seen them."

"But that was _after_ you won the Factory, Charlie, not _before_ we sat down in the boat."

"Yacht," said Willy.

"Yacht, whatever," Joe twisted in his chair, to catch Mr. Wonka's eye, "why _did_ you say the Vermicious Knids were a threat to the Loompa-Oompas? You told us they burn up trying to get through the atmosphere."

"Yeah, why did I say that? They _do_ burn up in the atmosphere, and they do have _nothing_ to do with Loompaland, or the Oompa-Loompas, or the Loompa-Oompas, or Snozzwhangers, or—"

Charlie reached over and hit pause. The tangent was time consuming, Willy's frustration was palpable, and Charlie's mother had motioned for him to do it: movies don't wait.

Willy wasn't interested in waiting, or in what he'd been saying. He knew the facts about Verminous Knids, and so did these down here. Why didn't he up there? With a soft 'What?' directed at no one, he hit play. The congregation hunkered down on their various perches, the evening beginning to feel like a forced march. The crowd on screen was clambering into the boat, and, when they were all aboard, Willy's frustration, dropped for a minute, came roaring back.

"What IS wrong with this me? There's not enough seats! Look at Mr. Gets-The-Vermicious Knids-Wrong sitting on a little jumpseat next to the gunwale! Why am I sitting _there?_ I want a view! 'Course," he frowned, "it is away from the others, and that's good, but"—the boat got under way— _"my_ yacht doesn't have that problem: it has _plenty_ of seats!"

 _"…_ _You're going to love this. Just love it."_

"I doubt it," said Willy, folding his arms across his chest.

"It's the rapids coming up," said Charlie, hoping to sway his mentor into a better mood.

"Oh, yeah; I might, then," allowed Willy. "I do love the rapids."

The boat was well under way now, and with smooth sailing anticipated, along with Willy, everyone sat back, ready for the adventure. Then, without a warning, at the one hour, two minute and eighteen second mark, Willy, saying nothing, hit pause again, and hunching forwards, stared at the screen. The stare stared on, and Charlie, his head on a swivel as if he were watching a tennis match—screen; Willy; screen; Willy; screen—could stand it no longer.

"What?"

The question pulled Willy from his reverie, and concerned, he turned to Charlie. "Don't you see it? Mr. Wilder looks as if he's going to eat them. That would, in fact, be cannibalism, my dear Charlie, and you've heard my views on that." Willy paused, his frown deepening. "Don't you think there's something wrong with him? With that look? Look at Mrs. Teavee: she feels it."

Josephine put down her crocheting. "That candy-making creep does look like he has something up his sleeve," she sniffed. "I wouldn't put it past him."

Ignoring the less-than-oblique dig—that wasn't him up there—Willy hit play. The boat continued its serene float down the sewage, er, river, with the chocolate fall passing off its right side. Eshle squirmed.

"Still bothering you?" asked Willy, turning his chin.

"Every time I see it," said Eshle.

"Me, too," agreed Willy.

When it came to running the Factory, Willy and Eshle seemed joined at the brain, and Charlie wondered if he should be jealous.

"Churns the chocolate my—"

"That wouldn't churn butter," cut in Doris, as Eshle was about to forget himself, and say something crude.

"Couldn't; can't; no way," sighed Willy. "D'ya suppose there's a fall at the other end of that tunnel? The one the boat came out of?" He let his words trail off, but biting his lip, Willy felt nothing but distress that Mr. Wilder had got this so wrong. Wishing himself free from this torment, Willy went with his theory. "Hey, you guys," Willy sat forwards, his index finger in the air, "that's it! There's a secret fall! Yeah!" Beaming, Willy turned back to Eshle. "That's it! This fall we _do_ see is for decoration only!"

Charlie had rarely seen or heard Mr. Wonka make excuses for others, but it did seem to him that Mr. Wonka was bending over backwards to make Mr. Wilder's portrayal of him work. High praise for Mr. Wilder, and Charlie again wondered if he should feel jealous.

The boat sailed on.

"The fall we see would make a current, at least," offered Mr. Bucket.

"So would the pipe suction," added Mrs. Bucket.

Willy was past that. "What? Yeah; hey!" He had a new concern. "Where are the mobile pipes?"

"Budget constraints," said Mr. and Mrs. Bucket, in unison.

Willy laughed, ready for the tunnel and the rapids. The movie wasn't.

 _"_ _I think I'm gonna be seasick."_

 _"_ _Here, try one of these."_

 _"_ _What are they?"_

 _"_ _Rainbow drops. Suck 'em and you can spit in seven different colors."_

"I am proud of my Rainbow Drops, but how does spitting in seven different colors help with seasickness?"

"It's camouflage for up-chuck?"

Willy giggled.

"Charlie!"

"Sorry, mum."

Josephine, in, and to, her horror, missed a stitch. "That awful girl is picking her nose!"

 _"_ _Spitting's a dirty habit."_

 _"_ _I know a worse one."_

"Ewww-ackkk!" squealed Willy, recoiling in his chair, his eyes as wide as the goggles he sometimes wore. "Gum AND boogers!"

Doris made a cold and nasty noise, that could most kindly be called a snigger. "D'you think that's how she keeps her gum's flavor fresh?"

Against his better judgement, Willy tittered, then frowned, lest the crowd take his laugh as approval. "Anyone now doubt why I insist my chocolate river be untouched by human hands?"

George stirred in his seat, creeping annoyance at more than Willy Wonka gnawing at him, but directing said annoyance to its usual target. "Isn't it redundant of you to say 'human' hands, Mr. Wonka? I don't see any other primates here, and other creatures don't have hands."

"Clocks have hands," shot back Willy, with narrowed eyes and jutting chin.

"But clocks aren't—"

"Shush, Dad!" Choosing her next words, chortling, Mrs. Bucket took Violet's lead. "Don't be _picky_ about this. They're going into the tunnel."

Doris sniggered again.

 _"'_ _Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!"_

Willy crumpled at the quote, cradling his forehead in his hand. The tunnel loomed.

"Let's enjoy the rapids," said Charlie.

Willy peeked through his fingers, and sat up. The room held its collective breath, hoping against hope that the coming rapids would rapidly return the light-hearted mood so lately left this chamber. Alas, gasps not grins groaned from lips, as not rapids were seen, but grisly glimpses of unholy Hell: horror producing terrors too brief to fix on, but not too brief to not roil the pit of one's stomach, bringing bitter bile to the back of one's throat. Blood drained from a few faces, most notably Willy's, whose present degree of paleness rivaled the horrors on the screen.

"This is what goes on in a candy factory?" Willy whispered, before closing his eyes. "They're telling the world that this is what happens in _my_ candy Factory? God help me."

Alarmed at what they were seeing on-screen and off-screen, the Buckets watched with varying degrees of revulsion, with Mr. Bucket, the most sanguine, itching to put a comforting hand upon Willy's sagging shoulder, but knowing better than to do it.

The older Oompa-Loompas were watching spellbound, compulsively shoveling chocolate-coated salted popcorn into their mouths at twice their previous rate as they waited, breathless, for the Hornswogglers, and the Snozzwhangers, and the terrible, wicked Whangdoodles to show their murderous faces, but they never did. What was showing up was creepy, and not something they ever saw in _this_ Factory, but no one on-screen was being swallowed in one gulp, or torn asunder by razor-sharp claws, or carried away into the blue, never to be seen again, and really, centipedes were _so_ much tastier than those vile green caterpillars, though, nodding at each other, they did agree that letting the centipede crawl across one's face to catch it _did_ seem inefficient, if not downright silly. Of course, the man might be dead, and thus not going to eat it, and then that would be an hors d'oeuvres going to waste, but… The younger Oompa-Loompas—those who had never known, or barely remembered, Loompaland—were as shocked as the Buckets, with a few mimicking Willy.

Charlie, taking stock of the various reactions, thought of stopping the movie, but it seemed better to get through this bizarre section as quickly as possible. That decided, his thoughts turned to wondering what would encourage Willy to unwind himself from the fetal position he'd assumed, and what it would take to get Willy to uncover his eyes.

 _"_ _Slugworth!"_

"Scarface!"

The cries were simultaneous. Willy, who'd been peeking all along, swung his feet to the floor, and springing to his feet, surveyed the others in the room accusingly. "How do _I,_ up-there, know about _Scarface_?"

"How do you know you know about him?" asked Mrs. Bucket, instinctively leaning away from the sudden energy emanating so near to her.

"Please, my dear lady! He's in the montage! The montage playing in _my_ Factory! In _my_ tunnel! Can you doubt I _made_ the montage! If I made it, and I included him, I _must_ know about him!" What little blood Willy had in his face drained away. " _What_ , for the love of heaven, am _I,_ I mean, not-I, _doing?"_

Before the shell-shocked crowd could address Willy's distress, the movie had moved on.

 _"_ _How can they see where they're going?"_

"There's no knowing where they're going," grinned Charlie, remembering what Willy had answered on the tour. "Switch on the—"

But Mr. Wilder had no intention of switching on the lights. He, with glassy stare, and hollow voice, recited more, and with every word, Willy sank lower and lower, as if he were sinking in quicksand, until he was back in his chair once more, his eyes as glassy as Mr. Wilder's, his whispered voice as hollow.

 _"_ _There's no earthly way of knowing  
_ _Which direction they are going!"_

To the room's amazement, Willy and Wilder were speaking in unison. As the verse called into doubt what ought not to be in doubt, Mr. Wilder's eyes grew wider, and his voice louder, even as Willy's voice grew fainter. Wilder spoke of rain, and snow, and a hurricane, and Willy fell silent, but Wilder spoke of light, and Willy intoned the words, in unison once more.

 _"_ _Not a speck of light is showing,  
_ _So the danger must be growing,"_

Wilder went off on another tangent, Willy letting him go, as he watched, mesmerized by what he was seeing and hearing.

 _"_ _Are the fires of hell a glowing?"_

"Are they?" Willy mouthed.

 _"_ _Is the grisly reaper mowing?"_

Willy flinched at Wilder's emphatic, _"YES!"_

Grandpa Joe, watching Willy dematerializing before their eyes, became alarmed. The terror emanating from Wilder was being absorbed by Willy.

 _"_ _For the rowers keep on rowing"_

Willy and Wilder were saying the words together, again. If this kept on, Joe feared for Willy. His son and daughter-in-law were getting the picture as well.

 _"_ _And they're certainly not showing"_

Willy's shoulders were slumped and rounded, as if under a great weight, and the Buckets could hear his voice becoming weaker and weaker, like a candle at the end of its wick, about to extinguish. This must stop!

 _"_ _Any signs that they are slowing…"_

Reaching across Charlie, Joe fumbled for the remote, but it was out of his reach. Charlie scooped it up from the arm of Willy's chair. Like a cobra striking, Willy's hand shot out and grabbed it back, bringing his arm in to his chest, and clutching it there.

Wilder screamed.

Willy cowered.

"Switch on the lights!" called out Grandpa Joe.

At the same time, on-screen, Mr. Wilder called out: _"…Stop the boat!"_

The on-screen boat halted as if frozen in place, and the lights in the Television Chocolate Room came up.

"Turn down the lights," snapped Willy, as resilient as ever.

"Leave them up!" snapped back Grandpa Joe, rising along with his anger. "I'm leaving, and I don't want to trip."

Willy's brows soared. The elder Buckets' mouths dropped. Charlie tried for a placating look. The scowl on Joe's face was like a dagger.

"Did you hear what I said while those ghastly images flashed by? When you said, _'This is kind of strange'_ , Charlie? I said, _'Yeah, strange, Charlie, but it's fun… ha, ha.'  
_ "Well it's not fun! It's ugly, and it's awful, and to have me say otherwise…" Joe's eyes lost their focus, as he shook his head. He'd never expected to live so long, as to see something like that, on a candy factory tour. "That man's name up there might be Joe, and he might be Charlie's grandfather, but that's all we have in common! If _he_ thinks that ride was fun, then that's the last straw! I'd never say any such thing about anything so atrocious!"

On shaky feet, Joe turned his back on the screen, and began to make his careful way from the room. The Oompa-Loompas were best situated to hear his mutterings, but they weren't the only ones to catch his words: "They might have made it, but I don't have to watch it. That man is not me! He's nothing like me, and I've seen enough."

Willy had stopped the movie when Joe had gotten to his feet. Now, with the room hushed, all eyes were on the oldster's back as he left. The door swished closed, and those in the room, still speechless, exchanged rapid glances. Willy, his eyes touring their sockets as he considered, let his brows fall back into place, motioned for the lights to dim, and as they did, pressed play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _As far as the quote in the opening author's note goes, I don't know whether to credit Fred R. Burton, or Ernest Thompson Seton, so I'll mention them both. "Smog and sewage and mud..." is from the Tom Lehrer song 'Pollution', though I did take the liberty of substituting 'sludge' for 'mud'. Sludge works better with the swudge, you see, and Georgina can be confused at times._

 _I'm afraid I never could watch the 1971 movie much past the Chocolate Room scene, and I seem to have carried that over into the writing of this story. Yet, exercising discipline, I have seen all of 1971—easier to do watching it with someone who likes it—and exercising discipline, I shall finish this story. My t_ _hanks to those of you who have reviewed this story, and thank you also for your patience._


	11. Chapter 11

_"A small step for mankind, but a giant step for us. All ashore!"_

"Another quote," said Charlie.

Willy gave no indication he'd heard, his face a blank, his full lips beneath his pale cheeks a straight line.

"At least he's changed it up," offered Mr. Bucket, "and paraphrased it."

Willy's eyes darted sidelong towards Mr. Bucket, but otherwise he gave him as much notice as he'd given Charlie. Changing a quote in no significant way was just getting it wrong, and there was no redemption in that. The room was silent. On-screen Charlie and Joe read out a sign on a storeroom door: a series of creams it was, ending with hair cream. The joke fell flat, too puny to overcome the somber mood the tunnel had set. On-screen Wonka spoke in German. George sniggered.

"Sure, now that the people who understand German are gone! _They'd_ feel right at home with that language: so much so that there'd be not much for Mr. Wonka up there to feel superior about."

A flick of his eyes in George's direction was all Willy had to spare for him. Charlie squirmed in his seat. After long years of knowing him, his mentor gone non-verbal was never a good sign.

 _"…No touching, no tasting, no telling."_

"You can agree with that, can't you, Willy?"

Charlie's hope-filled face was too sincere for Willy to ignore. He determined to ignore his sense of foreboding instead, and spare his apprentice his, Charlie's, unfortunate habit of taking responsibility for the moods of others onto himself. Deceptively easy, which made it no less difficult, Willy knew what it would take. He obliged. "Yes," said Willy. "I can."

Relieved, Charlie sat back. The Inventing Room was revealed in a panning of the camera that left the watchers in various states of shock.

 _"Inventing Room? It looks more like a Turkish bath to me."_

"On the one hand, he isn't here to hear himself say it, but on the other hand, I think Joe might agree with that," said Mrs. Bucket.

 _"Even if Slugworth did get in here, he couldn't find anything."_

Off-screen Charlie colored, as he agreed with what his alter-ego had said. The room was a tip.

 _"You got a garbage strike going on here, Wonka?"_

"Do I?" murmured Willy, his jaw slack, his eyes glassy, as he took in the on-screen ruin. When a used-car salesman rightly counts you a slob…

The snippy voice of Mrs. Teevee filled the room. _"Who does your cleaning up?"_

"We do," muttered Eshle, with the other Oompa-Loompas nodding assent, "and we would never allow a shambles like that!"

 _"Shouldn't you be wearing rubber gloves?"_

"I am wearing gloves." Willy waggled his hands to prove it. "They're not rubber. Rubber chafes ... and it doesn't breathe." Willy felt as if _he_ couldn't breathe.

The movie moved on to a sight gag.

 _"Time is a precious thing. Never waste it."_

"So why am I?" sighed Willy, as he watched on-screen Wonka toss the alarm clock he held into a foam covered caldron.

The Buckets exchanged glances, while the Oompa-Loompas thoughtfully popped chocolate gumdrops into their mouths. Time might be ticking down for this entertainment: it—fur shur—wasn't up to _their_ production standards, but there was more at stake here, and they all knew it. The meant-to-be-funny demonstration on-screen did nothing to change that. If anything, it made it worse: much worse. Veruca touched on a side of it:

 _"He's absolutely bonkers."_

 _"And that's not bad."_

"Et tu, Charlie? It is bad, very bad, and I'm surprised you didn't stick up for me. Ya coulda said, 'No, he is _not_!'" Willy shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking to where Grandpa Joe had sat, missing the old gentleman, as he knew Joe would have come to his defense. "Your Grandpa Joe woulda. He woulda likely used those exact words. I'm a lotta lot o' things, but 'bonkers' is not one of them."

An on-screen explosion exploded Charlie's chance to answer. On-screen Mike was blown back into a rack of saucepans, knocking all to the ground. The explosion had been in his mouth, a puff of smoke escaping that space as his mother checked on him.

"Take that!" said Georgina, shaking a fist.

 _"I told you not to, silly boy."_

Willy smiled. "That kid's gonna break all his little teeth off. They're not for eating, they're for shooting."

Charlie nodded. He remembered well the first time he'd seen the multi-storied Exploding Candy Room. _'Candy doesn't have to have a point,'_ he'd said, watching the trails of sparks, and myriad bright explosions. ' _That's why it's candy.'_ The boy he'd said it to, Mike Teavee, still hadn't gotten it. _'Candy is a waste of time,'_ Mike had answered. Willy, Mr. Wonka at the time, had said nothing, only breaking his silence to answer Mike's next demand: _'I wanna pick a room.'_ Willy's eager answer came roaring back: _'Go ahead.'_

Go ahead. Should he? Charlie had a question himself.

"Willy."

"Charlie."

"Why do you make candy for shooting, and not for eating?"

 _"That's exploding candy for your enemies."_

"That's why," sighed Willy, happily amazed that Mr. Wilder was being helpful. "My principal enemy is boredom, so targeting that, I make targets my enemies. Cuz ya know what? You can make targets look like anything ya want, and ya know what vanquishes targets? Shooting at em' does. I've got a ton o' targets in that room, and we, the Oompa-Loompas and I, vanquish em' all, whenever we want. How's that for a confidence builder when the chips, ha, ha, are gettin' ya down? Plus, it's fun on its own. It's always surprised me that you don't play there."

"But why make the missiles out of candy? Why not the real thing?"

"You've been living here all this time, and you still don't know they _are_ the real thing? My dear Charlie, tsk, tsk! You make me think you're not paying attention! The only thing candy on 'em is the coating!"

 _"…Needs more gelignite."_

"See? He gets it, but he's gone too far. Have I mentioned that Exploding Candies are for shooting, and not for eating?" Leaning forwards, Willy laced his fingers into a contemplative 'V'. "If Not-me-up-there is serious about the gelignite, he's a killer, and if he's kidding, then it's a joke in _very_ poor taste. Compared to that stuff, Whangdoodle blood is a treat."

"That poor child," said Mrs. Bucket, counting her blessing that she'd never been asked to sample Whangdoodle blood.

"The good news is," said Doris, "his knocking over the saucepan rack doesn't make the room any messier than it already was."

Mrs. Bucket frowned. The Oompa-Loompas said the oddest things sometimes.

With a nod to Doris, Willy raised an agreeing brow, but peering at Mrs. Bucket, he saw that she could use some soothing. "The force of the explosion is somewhat dependent on the force of its impact."

"Then Mike must have chomped his teeth on that candy like a demon," observed Mrs. Bucket.

"I concur the cur did indeed," agreed Willy. "You should have seen him go to town on my pumpkins! I think he is a demon."

Georgina dissolved into giggles. "Impacted no-wisdom teeth," she crowed, and for a minute, with smiles all 'round, every one thought every thing would be fine.

Messing that up, more sight gags followed, but like the first, they left the audience cold. They added nothing, except to the growing problem. On screen, an alarm sounded: a secret machine was revealed.

 _"This is the one that's really going to sizzle old Slugworth."_

"This is not the first time I've mentioned that man."

Mr. Bucket nodded. This was the second time they'd heard Mr. Wilder say the name in the last five minutes, and then there was that whole Scarface/Slugworth routine, that had been playing for as long as the Golden Ticket Contest had. Willy acknowledged Mr. Bucket's agreeing nod with a sidelong glance, and went on.

"I drop his name every chance I get. Am I Up-there obsessed with that cad? Because I Down-here am not. Has my candy not bested his? Have I therefore not bested him? I have, and the world knows it.

"Why then, am I Up-there dwelling on him? _Wasting my time,_ putting the bad taste of his despicable name in my mouth? Didn't Up-there Me say wasting time was a bad thing to do?" Arms crossed, Willy's lips drew into a pout. "I wish he'd take his own advice."

The scene played on, and the reason Wonka Up-there cared became plain. This was the Everlasting Gobstopper machine, and part of the set-up. The set-up. Willy stirred in his seat, uncomfortable once more.

The children were handed gobstoppers. His chin in his hand, with knitted brows, Willy tried to fathom them. Odd shaped items, they were; not a shape that one would want to suck on. They looked more like the jacks from a children's game … Colorful candy jacks. Would a person want to suck on a jack? A jack that never got any smaller? Pain for roof and gum and tongue, all day long, and into the night? For years? Who would want that? Were they shaped like that as a metaphor for the pain of poverty? Did people with very little pocket money—with the poverty that implied— _need_ more pain?

Willy exhaled, a slow breath, and turned to the practical: they'd never sell, except to the masochist crowd, and were there enough of that type to sustain the line? Willy doubted it. Willy's disquiet grew. Him Up-there was crowing about all of this. His crystal blue eyes were alight, shining like beacons, the thrill of his actions making his face glow; his body tingle all over.

Willy could see it from where he sat. He could feel it. Gene Wilder was an excellent actor, after all, but after all, what, Willy wondered, was Mr. Wilder so gleeful about? Willy could guess, but he didn't have to. He knew. It was the thrill of seeing the plan unfold. Plans unfolding as planned were lovely things. But not in this case. In this case, the plan was unfair. It was a set-up. It was the glee of seeing these children set-up that was sending Him Up-there into flights of barely repressed joy, and that was wrong. Scarface—that odious person Him Up-there clearly knew all about—had set the charges, and here was Him Up-there gleefully handing out the fuses: a fuse for each of them. Forget Exploding Candy. Sooner or later, this was gonna explode.

Willy stood. He had no choice. The motive behind what he was seeing on-screen was making his skin crawl, and he must do _something_. He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it. Did bratty children need setting-up? No, they didn't. The Gloop kid's dunking debunked that delusion. Did Him Up-there think the other ne'er-do-wells would be any different? Just how naïve—or worse—was he? People whose proclivities took them to the edges of cliffs anyway didn't need additional, gratuitous, pushes. As unfair to the governed-by-their-flaws as that was, Willy would never do it: not because he cared a single hoot for the fates of the undisciplined reprehensibles, but because it would be _beneath_ him to _waste_ his time and energy on them. But Him Up-there… Him Up-there was determined to… to goad them. Making Willy's point, an on-screen demand boomed through the room:

 _"I can only give them to you if you solemnly swear to keep them for yourselves and never show them to another living soul as long as you all shall live. Agreed?"_

It was an oath guaranteed to be violated, with Veruca losing no time in doing so: she crossed her fingers behind her back, even as she said the word 'agreed'. Mr. Wilder smiled a knowing smile her way, and at them all. He knew, Willy knew. He knew, and he was toying with them. They may as well be flies: flies about to have their wings torn off.

The scene moved on, and Willy had too much to say about what he was seeing to say any of it. Pulling the wings off flies… unconscionable. It was hopeless to defend himself. No one in _this_ room, he knew, thought _he_ needed defending, and preaching to the choir, oh happy cliché, was a _waste of time_ , but defend Willy thought he must. Was this, then, NOT about him? Had Willy stood instead to come to the defense of He Up-there? To the defense of Mr. Wilder? Impossible, but it seemed so. Willy didn't know whether to clench his teeth, or sigh in despair. There was no defense for what that man was doing. Smarting under the unfairness of this … person's … machinations, but defeated as to knowing what he ought to do about them, Willy sat.

"Please!"

It was Eshle, and at first, Willy thought it was an objection to his having stood. "Heh, I _am_ a better door than a window," he said by way of apology, with a look over his shoulder, but Eshle was staring at the screen. Willy followed his gaze.

 _"Button, button, who's got the button?"_

On-screen Charlie clapped Wonka on the back, and Willy flinched. Wonka pushed the button Charlie pointed out, and the contraption started up. The titters from the Oompa-Loompas in the room watching, joined the melee of sounds on the screen. Who knew if the Loompa-Oompas were sniggering, but there was no way anyone from Willy's Factory could take this toddler-designed machine seriously, and they didn't. Eshle and Willy were aghast. The Buckets, knowing Willy's standards as they did, wondered how much more of this Willy could take. Willy fingers were curled over the ends of the arms of his chair, and it didn't take x-ray vision to know his knuckles were white.

Completing its mission, the machine spit out a piece of gum. Wonka took it. Violet took it. She chewed it. She blew up, like a balloon … No, like a blueberry. The Loompa-Oompas encircled her, and began another simplistic chant. The titters were gone, as the sub-par creativity in their bailiwick irked the seated Oompa-Loompas.

Wonka took out his whistle, and Willy stood up. Wonka delievered his instructions, and Willy turned, taking the remote with him. He walked across the room, to the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Bucket, as Violet on-screen was rolled through the door.

"You heard Mr. WUTANM, dear lady. I'm going to the Juicing Room," said Willy blandly, "before I swell up, like a blueberry, and burst."

"What about the rest of the movie?" asked Mr. Bucket.

"I believe I've said I've had my fill, and filled is a better place than most to stop filling."

"But, why go? Why now?" pleaded Charlie.

"It's not now," said Willy, pointing the remote at the screen. He backed up the movie to a point where Wonka's face was framed by apparatus, and hit pause. "It's then." His eyes had narrowed as he spoke, his voice becoming as silky as anyone had ever heard it. "Look at that look. I've never met this man. I've done nothing to him. And yet, he does this to me." Like a diva dropping a rhinestone, Willy dropped the remote into the hands of the nearest Oompa-Loompa, and taking his leave by walking backwards through the doorway, left.

As with Joe, the door swished closed. The room hushed. On-screen, frozen, for all to see, was the face of a madman, and no doubt about it. A minute ticked by, and then another. Mr. Bucket, breaking the spell, rose to his feet. A step towards the door would have started a mass exodus, but he stepped to the chair Willy had lately left, and claimed it.

"May I have the remote?" Hand-over-hand it was passed forwards to him. Taking it, he pointed it at the screen. "We may as well see the rest. We all know it will kill Willy not to know how it turns out, and this way, he can ask us."

"Can we ask him what WUTANM stands for?" asked a dazed Mrs. Bucket.

"Should I go after him, Dad?"

"Let him be, Charlie," said a sympathetic Mr. Bucket. "That's Gene Wilder up there."

Charlie was pretty sure he knew what his dad was getting at, but he knew something else, too. In his haste to say them, his words tripped over themselves. "He won't ask us! He knows how it turns out!"

"Be that as it may, Charlie," said Mr. Bucket calmly, and he pushed play.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _For the curious, the spot Willy is referring to is darn close to 1:11:01. Someone, somewhere, pointed out that after the French, Wilder!Wonka spoke in the language of the departed, and whoever you are, I give you credit for that observation. I have used it here. Willy is right about Grandpa Joe's reaction to the others calling Willy insane: the book spells it out._

 _ **Blubird513**_ _: Yeah, the boat scene! It is a treat, isn't it? Thanks for commenting._ _ **Squirrela**_ _: For me, the mobile pipes have an alien feel. Based on the second book, I think Willy would like an alien touch in his Chocolate Room. But you never know. Thanks for your thoughts._ _ **Linkwonka88**_ _: Thanks for your welcome, it's nice to hear from you, too. I find I don't find many people who like the 2005 movie, so, I guess, who knows? I hope folks are enjoying this story. Thanks for leaving a comment._


	12. Chapter 12

Head down in anger, Grandpa Joe had walked for longer than he'd planned before he'd calmed enough to think about where he wanted to go. Home? He hated to go there, knowing it would be empty, and knowing that he'd fill that emptiness with his thoughts about the injustices of that movie. But he was exhausted, and home was where rest was. Resigning himself, he took his bearings, and headed in that direction. Soon enough, with shoulders slumping, and feet beginning to drag, he found himself in the Chocolate Room, the roofline of his cozy home just hidden by a rise or two in the candied terrain. So close, but Grandpa Joe was reluctant to go there still. He wanted company for his misery, but not conversation. He traced his way to the edge of the pool by the chocolate fall, and let its steady roar drown out his thoughts.

* * *

 _"_ _Where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?"_

In the Chocolate Television Room, the movie played on. 'I fancy in the head,' signed an Oompa-Loompa, 'and if I listen to my head, I haven't the heart to stay!' At this, the rustle of movement that accompanied the signing frenzy, as more Oompa-Loompas joined in, was an undertone competing with the film's dialogue. It was as if a dam had broken.

'Let's head out of here!'

'Let's head for the door!'

'I fancy we need our heads examined to stay!'

'Willy went. Why shouldn't we?'

A smatter of nervous titters joined the rustling.

 _"Wait a minute. Must show you this."_

All motion stopped. Wait a minute? Oh, it was the screen talking, that Wonka-not-Willy person. The crowd with him had moved to a hallway with fruit-flavored wallpaper, and they were licking up a storm. Wilder, that was his name, claimed it was for nurseries, and that was fine if you thought infants and toddlers on sugar-highs were a good idea, but everyone in the room knew that lick-able wallpaper was for the tedious boredom of waiting in waiting-rooms: what better way to grab a snack without losing your turn? At this omission the titters returned, and with them the signing:

'Fancy taking a mosey?'

'Is that what you're a propose-y?'

An Oompa-Loompa not taking part rolled his eyes. This movie was rubbing off on them, and not in a good way. Not wanting to miss the cue to bolt, but not wanting to lead the pack, he refocused on the gesturing hands.

'Yeah, I fancy I am, and yeah, that's the plan, the plan that's bred in my head…'

'Then what are we waiting for?'

The signing halted abruptly. What were they waiting for? Willy had already left. Brown eyes darted from one to the next. One of them would know, but the cue had to be _just right_ , or it wouldn't be defensible. Coming to their rescue, almost as one, Willy's repeated complaint echoed in their heads. Almost as one, they signed the trigger: 'THE NEXT QUOTE!'

 _"We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams…"_

Hallelujah! More than one Oompa-Loompa jumped to their feet. Jeepers, this man quoted a lot!

 _"…Come along, come along."_

But the Oompa-Loompas weren't coming along, they were going along, and fast! To those that wanted out, the quote was a God-send, and as if pulled by a rip-tide, two-thirds of the Oompa-Loompas surged towards the door, flowing through it, their only farewell the patter of their feet as they danced down the hall.

Doris and Eshle, aware of the unrest around them, turned to watch them go. Mr. Bucket and Mrs. Bucket did the same. Charlie kept his eyes on the screen, hoping his father wouldn't stop the movie. The sooner this was over, the better.

"Do you think this movie was a hit when it came out?" asked Mr. Bucket, taking stock of the thinning ranks.

No one dared answer.

* * *

Willy, having left, had no intention of going to the Juicing Room. What he was full of couldn't be sucked out of him so easily. The Inventing Room was out as well, as was almost everywhere else he could think of in his Factory. These thoughts, the contamination… But there was one place: one of his favorite places, a place where he went when he wanted to think, but not think, particularly; it was there that he'd go.

* * *

 _"Let's take a drink, Charlie: nobody's watching."_

"Oh!" said Josephine, shocked. With Willy gone, she was paying closer attention. "Thank the heavens my Joe isn't here to hear that!"

 _"Yeah."_

Charlie's mouth hung open, his chin on his chest. He'd never! Joe and Charlie on-screen drank the Fizzy Lifting drink that Mr. Wonka had warned them not to. In his chair, Charlie's mouth closed with a snap. Whatever these two did, come Hell or high-water, there was no way Charlie was leaving.

* * *

About to leave the secluded glen he'd found, the muffled sound of a door, opening and closing, and a flare of light, quickly extinguished, caught Grandpa Joe's attention. Steps were coming his way, an intruder, and Joe held his breath. It did no good. Whoever was approaching was approaching this very spot. Pushing aside the foliage, the tip of a walking-stick appeared. Saying nothing, Joe took a step back, closer to the overhanging foliage.

Willy saw him instantly, of course, and of course he hesitated, but only for a moment. It was Joe, and if anyone were feeling the same way he was, it would be Joe. Saying nothing, Willy moved towards the back of the little glen, towards a shiny candy plant with large, spade-shaped, flat fronds. Rummaging beneath them, he laid his walking-stick on the ground, reappearing with two glasses, one in each hand. Slim at the bottom, the sides flared as they rose, widening to hold about three times what a shot glass would. They were full of a dark liquid.

"Care to take a drink?" asked Willy. "A small one won't hurt us."

Joe nodded, and as Willy made no move towards him, Joe came closer. At arms length, Willy handed him a glass. "Santé," said Willy, raising his glass to Joe, and then downing its contents in one go.

Joe was cautious. This was odd behavior for Willy, a man not given to gluttonous acts, never mind what the custom might call for. Joe took a sip. His nose had told him it was chocolate, but his tastebuds told him it was the most fantastic chocolate he had ever tasted. It was better than the chocolate in the chocolate river. It was better than the chocolate in any of the chocolate bars. It was better than the chocolate in the fancy bonbons Willy made. It was Willy Wonka, out-doing himself. Joe sipped again, torn between gobbling the goodness as Willy had, or making this bliss last.

"There's more," said Willy, divining Joe's dilemma. "It's a spring."

Up-ending his glass, Joe sucked down the rest. Willy reached for it, and having refilled them both, handed it back. Willy held his, while Joe sipped. That sorted, Willy turned away, and moved down towards the chocolate fall, parting the foliage that hid this nook. Joe followed. Ululating, an Oompa-Loompa appeared. Willy bent down and spoke to him, and soon, the Oompa-Loompa having taken the message, Joe noticed that the angle of the ramp at the bottom of fall had been adjusted. The roar of the fall had increased, the chocolate churning itself madly, frothing and foaming unstoppably, with Willy Wonka looking on, eyelids half-closed, content.

* * *

 _"…Mr. Wonka isn't gonna like this."_

"Truer words were never spoken," said Eshle, watching Joe and Charlie fly.

 _"We can't stay up here all day!"_

Charlie cringed where he sat.

* * *

After awhile, Willy made a motion with his hand, and the ramp returned to its usual angle. Joe was loathe to break the silence. Sharing his feelings was never Willy's strong suit, and it was rare enough for Joe to share his unattended presence. Willy, sipping the last of his chocolate, saved Joe the trouble. "I don't see my walking-stick." The words were said crisply, but it was as if each one were being given a lot of thought before being spoken.

"I'll get it," said Joe.

"Oh good," said Willy, weaving just a little. "We can't stay out here all night."

Joe took a step in the direction of the hidden glen. Does a chocolate river hypnotize?

"A polluted watershed."

The forlornness Joe heard in those words made him turn back. Willy, shoulders slumped, head hanging, was staring at his river, as if he _were_ his river, and hearing those words, his heart had broken. "Can you imagine calling it that?"

"Imagine this for me," said Joe. "A smoker: burning money when there was a family to feed."

"I've never seen you smoke."

"I never have."

Willy laughed softly. "A chocolate fall that doesn't mix."

"Singing that the Golden Ticket Charlie found is mine."

Willy's fingers made to tighten on the walking-stick he didn't have. Missing it, a sigh escaped him. "Yeah, that singing you did. Don't forget the dancing. For not having been outta bed for twenty years, I gotta say that was one darn quick recovery ya made."

"Unbelievable, I'd say. I'll go and get your walking-stick."

Willy followed like a puppy. "Grandpa Joe, sir! You're walking! It's a miracle!" Willy caught up with him. "I thought the chamber pots underneath the bed were a nice touch."

"Embarrassing is what I'd call it."

"Nah, I gotcha for embarrassing: how 'bout me making a montage of horror, and showing it? … To anyone?"

Joe bent to fetch the stick. "How about me condoning, if not encouraging, stealing?"

"Yeah, that was bad, but believing Charlie _would_ steal was worse." Willy ended by looking thoughtful, because he knew given the right circumstances, anyone would steal. Joe handed him his walking-stick. Willy, taking it, rolled it in his hand. "How about an Inventing Room kept so slovenly, the people on the screen revile it for me?"

Joe's brows climbed. "It was? They did?"

Willy nodded.

Joe shrugged his boney shoulders. "It's not over, is it?"

Willy shook his head.

"Are the rest still watching?"

Joe watched as Willy nodded again. Normally Willy'd have taken off by now, called away by some pressing business that couldn't wait, imaginary or not. Instead, Willy was fiddling with the glass he still held. Misery loves company, and Willy looked miserable. Joe raised his glass, as if to hand it to him.

Willy managed to find his voice. "More chocolate?"

Joe reeled his glass back before Willy could take it from him. "Thank you, but I'd prefer some Butterscotch in this glass, my good man. I'd like to see some in yours, too. Or Buttergin. That movie didn't do me justice, and if you're here, you don't think it did you justice, either." Joe began the climb to the house. "I've got a stash, you know: of both. Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand." Joe had no idea if Willy would follow. So far, by the sound of it, no luck. "They'd be just the thing to chase the chocolate with. Come on. We can commiserate together." As he kept going, Joe thought he heard a quiet, ''Kay', but he daren't look back.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended._

 _ **Squirrela** : Whatever the reason for it, it makes me feel happy when people otherwise disagreeing—but not disagreeably—can agree. Let me also compliment you on your PM solution to what Willy was getting at, at the end._

 _ **Awkwardperson** : I begin by complimenting you on your alias: it's wonderful. While I am not fond of the 1971 version—and I don't think Mr. Wonka of 2005 is too enamored of it either—I do have to thank Mr. Wilder for his interpretation of the character: without him, it would be hard as heck to write criminally-insane/insane Wonka stories. I'm glad you're enjoying Eshle, et al, I do think Oompa-Loompas are often given short shrift, and not to worry, you got the name's spelling right. :-)_

 _ **The Vagabond Scribbler** : Is the 1971 version flawed, or merely different? In the straw polls I've taken, I've found that most who prefer 1971 have not read the book. Most who have read and like the book prefer 2005, which IS, after all, the book, and that almost verbatim. __Exploring further, objections to 2005 largely lie with Tim Burton's directing style and the back story he added, a back story which has nothing to do with the book, but which did have an influence on the character Mr. Depp then had to play. Objections to 1971 are largely that it's not the book, and worse, that it's no where near the book._

 _As fanfic writers, it's my opinion that we need to appreciate both versions for the myriad plot lines they suggest, as well as for the different versions of Mr. Wonka, et al, they present for our use. As an example *laughs* were it not for these two versions, how could I write this story?_

 _I appreciate your desire for proofreading perfection, caution you on including personal details in public spaces on the Internet, thank you for sharing your point of view, and wish, having read all you had to say, that I knew more about what you liked/didn't like about the chapter I wrote. :-)_

 _ **Sonny April** : I found your analysis of the two versions of Mr. Wonka spot-on, and agree that their differences are our opportunities for a nice variety of plots and stories. Thank you for sharing. Let me also thank you, and the other reviewers who also mentioned this, for saying that you didn't expect Willy to leave. The mark of a rounded character is the ability to surprise, and I'm chuffed to find that I have a rounded character. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, and what are sure to be Willy's continued comments. Thank you for yours._


	13. Chapter 13

Back in the Television Chocolate Room, only the remaining Buckets, Doris, and Eshle stayed to see the sickeningly sweet, bitter ending, and counting Georgina among that lot was iffy, as her gentle snores had added themselves to the sound track shortly after screen Grandpa Joe and Charlie had made it back to the floor of the Fizzy Lifting Drinks Room. Veruca's production number in the Golden Geese Room was enough to clear out the remaining Oompa-Loompas.

"Little Miss Demolition-Demander gets all that, and we get chants?" they'd muttered.

"That's enough! I want out _now_!" howled one, and up he jumped, and off he went, and quick as could be, his compatriots followed his lead. Doris and Eshle were inclined to join them, but as close to Willy as they were, they stuck it out. He'd want to know what happened. As the last scene faded to the credits, the two exchanged a glance, with Doris shrugging, and Eshle raising a brow.

"Anyone _you_ know in that... whatever-it-is-they-called-it?" she asked.

"Nah-uh," he answered, shaking his head with eyes closed.

Before the Buckets could scrape their chins off their chests at the film's ending and add their comments, the two had slipped from their perches, and were halfway to the door. Mr. Bucket felt his family abandoned, but he understood their haste to leave. The final scenes were … disconcerting in their unexpectedness.

"Shall we get the lights?" he called out after them.

"Sure," returned Eshle, without looking back. "Last one out, blah-de-blah."

They left, the credits ended, and before the next movie could start, Mr. Bucket pushed the power button. Deprived of life, the picture shrank into a pin of light and vanished. The lights in the room were already low, and the furthering darkness as the screen faded to black made the room eerie, the ensuing silence emphasizing its vastness.

"It's just us chickens left," whispered Mrs. Bucket, shell-shocked by the emotional roller-coaster of those final scenes. Her words melted into the shadows, echoing softly back. They faded to nothing, and a few minutes after that, George spoke up.

"It's no chicken who can watch _that_ movie to its end."

"Knowing, if they do, anything about who we _really_ are…" muttered Charlie.

The spell broken, the torpor clearing, Mr. Bucket leapt to his feet, and clapping his hands together, encouraged the others. "What's say we chickens get ourselves back to the coop? How about that for more fun?"

As one, they nodded. Nodding back, he led them to the Great Glass Elevator, by far the most efficient way to get around the Factory, and doubly so when the grandparents were involved.

* * *

Back at the coop, er, the house, they opened the door to find the hanging scent of Butterscotch filling their nostrils. There was no fire in the grate, but a nightlight by the door at floor level cast enough light for them to see Grandpa Joe asleep at the dining table, his arms folded, his head tucked upon them. At first Charlie thought they'd woken him—he was mumbling something—but as Charlie and his father, with fingers on lips to quiet the others, moved further into the room, they realized that Joe was talking in his sleep. Charlie moved opposite to his grandfather, the table between them, while Mr. Bucket moved to lay a gentle hand upon his Dad's shoulder to wake him up.

"They killed my boy," moaned Joe, still in his dream.

"They didn't though, Dad, I'm right here."

"They did, they did," Joe plaintively cried, stirring. "I saw it! With my own eyes … They said he was gone! Dead…" His voice trailed off, barely a whisper now, "...gone."

"I'm not gone, I'm not dead, I'm right beside to you."

"Wha...?" Joe was awake now, tears wetting his cheeks.

Mrs. Bucket picked up the mug near Joe's elbow. "Butterscotch, dear?"

Peering in the direction of the voice, Joe's sight cleared of sleep, and before he could answer, he recognized his son. "You're alive! You're alive! Oh, thank God!" Turning from the waist, Joe threw his arms around his sons hips, hugging him from where he sat.

"Sure, Dad, alive and well… that's me. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?"

"Comfortable? In bed?"

Mr. Bucket extricated himself from his father's embrace. Joe took the arm his son offered him, rising on unsteady feet. Josephine hovered at his side, the frown she'd put on not enough to mask her concern.

"I'm a cad, son … A heel! … Why should a cad be comfortable?"

"You're not a cad, Dad, or a heel—"

"I am, I am! I'm so glad you're alive!"

"And this is why I am not a fan of Butterscotch," opined George, listening to the maudlin claims.

Charlie had bent down, reaching under the table. "What are these?" The group turned with interest to see. "Grandpa Joe," Charlie's brows knit together, "why are Willy's shoes underneath the table?"

Georgina perked up, a happy smile on her face to think that, perhaps, attached to his shoes, they'd find Willy Wonka under the table.

"They're not underneath the table, dear, they're in your hands."

"Mum!"

Georgina shook her head sadly.

Joe focused on the problem. "I'm a heel! That's why!"

"I don't see what that—"

"I'm trying to tell you 'what that'," said Joe, with infinite patience. "You interrupted. We were talking about… about that… _celluloid_ … and I was telling Willy that movie made me a heel. He said I wasn't; that I shouldn't worry about it. He said he had it worse. He said it took away his soul. I said, 'That's not right.' And then I said, 'You have a sole. Your foots," Joe stopped; thought; reconsidered; "feets have soles.' And then Willy said, 'That's a—"

"Did he giggle?"

"No, he didn't giggle! You've done it again, Charlie… You're interrupting. Nothing good ever comes from interrupting. I said, 'Your feets have soles', and he said, 'That's a feat', and then he took off his shoes. And then he said, 'See? I'm right. No soles; no soul'—"

"Did he giggle then?"

"No, he didn't giggle! Do you think going around without a soul is a giggling matter? And then he told me to take off _my_ shoes, because then I wouldn't be a heel, or even twice a heel, and so I did, and then he told me I wasn't a heel anymore, and then he left, and then I went to sleep."

Charlie was at a loss. Was it possible? "Willy was drinking with you?"

Weaving his way to his full height, leaning against his son to do it, Grandpa Joe mustered all the aplomb he could. "Of course not. Willy doesn't drink. Everyone knows that." With Willy's honor properly defended, Joe let himself slump. "He was drinking chocolate. Best darn chocolate you ever tasted."

Now that his grandfather mentioned it, Charlie noticed a curved glass on a corner of the table containing a film of chocolate. Taking a swipe, he sampled the dregs with his finger. Joe wasn't kidding, and for not the first time, Charlie wondered if, when it came to this Factory and his future, he were in trouble.

His mother caught his look of worry, and misread it. "Don't worry, Charlie, dear, Willy will be by at breakfast. We can return his shoes, then."

Charlie turned the shoes over, the golden 'W's etched into their soles staring back at him. There'd been no giggles. As his parents occupied themselves with his grandparents, Charlie set the abandoned shoes and their twin soles by the door.

* * *

It was a somber group around the breakfast table next morning. Willy was not among them, which was weird, Willy nearly always joined them for breakfast, but with last night in mind, the family thought they had the explanation.

George was in a foul mood. "Did you see the way they portrayed me?" he asked no one, buttering his roll so savagely he tore it. "Blind as a bat with no sonar, and not two brain cells to rub together."

"You don't know that," reproved Mrs. Bucket.

"Judging by the pithy lines they gave me…"

"And the screen time," Joe chimed in.

"Don't talk to me, Joe Bucket! You left! Turned tail and ran like an antelope on the first day of hunting season."

The table went quiet. Unsaid, floating in the air above them like an old, dead goose hanging over their heads was the thought: 'so did Willy'. It made them nervous, and nervous, they studied their plates.

"Leaving was the sensible thing to do," Joe finally said.

"Not if you wanted to see the film," snapped George.

This was too true to be contradicted, and Joe held his peace. Holding his peace, he wondered, and wondering, he asked aloud his new peace. "Did it get any better?"

Georgina sniffed.

George scowled.

Josephine looked away.

Studying their folds, Charlie pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate. He zeroed in on a grain of salt, and watched it dissolve.

Mr. Bucket shook his head.

Mrs. Bucket sighed. "Not for you, it didn't."

"For Willy?"

"Not particularly," said Mr. Bucket.

"I won the Factory," allowed Charlie, hoping that observation would salvage the mood. Alas, it didn't.

"How bad did it get?"

"None of your business," spat George, his scowl deepening. "We had to watch it! If you want to know what we know, watch it for yourself! By the way, how's your head? Drink any champagne during your pity-party last night, did you? Because _that_ would be life imitating art! Pass the salt, please."

Champagne? Notes played in Joe's head. He hummed the words to himself: 'Tiny bubbles...' That's what made champagne, champagne. He'd have sent a scowl George's way were he not unsure that that might do him harm. What was George getting at? Tiny bubbles were life imitating art?

Mr. Bucket rose from the table. "Time I got going."

And that, thought Charlie, was why Willy normally came to breakfast, and not normally to supper. Breakfast ended punctually. As the others stirred, there came a rap on the door. Before anyone could call 'come in', with a resounding creak that sent Joe's hand to his head, the door opened.

"Did y'all think I'd miss this?" Willy quickly took in the emptied plates. "Cuz I think I have. Hmm... I had to pussy-foot over here ya know, and ya know, that takes time." Willy beamed one of his stunning ersatz grins at the blank faces staring back at him, and turned away, looking searchingly at the floor. "Oh, wonderful, my shoes!" Pouncing on them, he sank to the bench by the door and slipped them on, slipping his pink, kitty-faced slippers—complete with kitty ears at his ankles, and whiskers where they ought to be—off. "Y'all die-hards enjoy the rest of the show?" The blank faces staring at him morphed into a study of varied reactions. Willy raised a brow. "Really? That bad? What happened?"

Silence greeted him. George made a noise in his throat that everyone, hearing it, were sure they were glad hadn't been a word. Joe, a beat later, cleared his throat.

"I asked that very same question."

"And?"

"I was told if I wanted to know, I'd have to watch the rest of it."

"Eww."

George, having turned away, turned back, and opening his mouth, came face to face with Willy's eyes, icy slits, daring George to say what George was clearly thinking: 'and so will you'. George decided salvation lay in silence, and closed his mouth.

"Humph," humphed Willy, as he surveyed the others. "How daunting. Should I?" Willy's piercing eyes had landed on Charlie. Having no wish to presume, Charlie kept quiet, the silence lengthening.

"It appears the jury is out. I'm out, too, and it looks like you are also, Mr. Bucket. Going my way?" Mr. Bucket nodded, and Willy swung back to Charlie. "When are you out, Charlie?"

"Out?"

"That _was_ the question."

Mrs. Bucket stepped in. "I think Willy is asking you when you are leaving for the new term."

Charlie bit his lip not to bark at his mother. He knew full well that that was what Willy was asking him, but had hoped that this was the term where the subject wasn't brought up. That this would be the term when this term of exile was ended.

Willy, twisting his walking-stick in his hand, and seemingly about to speak himself, twirled on his heel instead, joining Mr. Bucket at the door, and leading the way through it. Once through it, he dropped the slippers he carried into the hands of a waiting Oompa-Loompa, who scurried away. Then, checking the direction Mr. Bucket took, Willy went the opposite way.

Charlie saw it all through the open door that Joe was now closing. The others took to their accustomed places, and with a sigh, Charlie helped his mother to clear the table.

"He didn't wait for my answer."

"You can tell me, dear. When are you going back? And where is 'back', this time? Paris, again?"

"I don't think so," said Charlie, picking up a tea towel, while his mother filled the sink with soapy water. "I thought maybe Florence, or Venice this time; get into the art angle a bit more." His mother handed him a dripping dish, and he dried it. "This globetrotting was fun when it started."

"I remember you thinking going to university was a bad idea."

"I did, Mum, but Willy was right. The world is a big place, and I ought to have seen it some before I settled down here forever." Charlie dried another dish, the frown on his face deepening. "But it's been three years now, and I _have_ seen it. No offense, Mum, and I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, but I'd rather be here."

Mrs. Bucket dried her hands on her apron, and touched her son's elbow. "I know, dear, but Willy must know that, too. I'm sure it won't be for much longer."

"I wonder. Do you know what I've learned so far out there?" It was a rhetorical question, and Charlie didn't wait. "I've learned that Willy hasn't told me anything about candy-making or chocolate-making that the world out there doesn't already know. It's true that what he's taught me is top-of-the-line, but it isn't what _he_ knows." Becoming despondent, Charlie remembered the chocolate he'd tasted last night, in that glass abandoned on the table. "Is Willy _ever_ going _to teach_ me _that_?"

Mrs. Bucket handed him the last of the cutlery, and untied her apron. "I'm sure he will, dear, when he thinks the time is right." She paused as she watched her son dry a spoon, and then a fork. "Charlie?"

"Yes, Mum?"

"Just then, you sounded as whiney as that Charlie in the movie."

"I did?"

"You did."

"You did."

"You did."

Her response cascaded, as George and Josephine and Joe chimed in. Charlie had to grin. There was no expectation of privacy in this house!

"Kooties," crowed Georgina, while Joe nodded.

"Fair enough, everyone. I'll try not to let 'whiney' rub off on me." Charlie began to sort the cutlery into its drawer, while his mother put away the plates. "I wish we'd watched _Young Frankenstein_ last night."

"That was the plan," agreed Joe.

"Best laid plans…" said Georgina.

Charlie leaned against the worktop, staring at the door. "Did you notice? Willy didn't giggle this morning, either." That was true, and nods all around confirmed it. There'd been no giggles. "I hate it when Willy acts old," said Charlie, forlorn, and although until Charlie had said it, they hadn't given it much thought, with solemn nods of their heads, the others silently agreed.

* * *

 _Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films._ _I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended. If you recognize the phrase 'This was too true to be_ _contradicted' it's because you've read_ Emma _, by Jane Austin. I love that phrase. The song mentioned is_ Tiny Bubbles _, by Don Ho._

 **XXCandyLoverXX** _: Or, a story where Mr. Wonka goes for suga-rey? Wifi is line of sight, so, with the Factory as much underground as it is—all those rock walls, tunnels, and such—I'm thinking routers every eighteen feet, and then I'm wondering about the security issues, so, no, I'd say internet yes, but wifi maybe not so much._

 **Verucabeyotch** _: I know what you mean, but I gotta say, I like the 2005 backstory: it has those references to Mr. Dahl's own life about it, and, significantly, I don't believe Mr. Dahl ever forgave his father for leaving him when Roald was three years old. Thanks for taking the time to review._

 **Squirrela** _: I like best that the litany of faults are voiced by the characters in the 1971 movie themselves: saves my characters the bother. Something they can agree on? :-) I'm going to take exception to your 'copy' comment, but not in any meaningful way... Thanks for your review._


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